#where’s the stable ground beneath their feet. they would hate this so so much. they would.

[quietwingsinthesky]

oh even would hate what missy is becoming.

[thunder-point]

phumpeem ep 9 drabble

Phum is sure about his feelings. No question about it, for what were Fang's echoing words if not a solidified conclusion to whatever he was going through these past weeks?

So Phum is sure about his feelings.

What he's not sure about is Peem. It's the situation they are in. That's where uncertainty lies.

Because he can go ahead and let out everything. On his side, it's a stable fixture that keeps on rising. Letting Peem know he's adorable, telling him what a precious thing his company is to Phum - everything comes out smoothly. The air in his lungs gives voice to it like nothing else. His chest expands, it grows bigger, it warms up. But what is on Peem's mind, Phum can never tell. And since coming to this camp, it's become more obvious. It's pressing down on his chest, and this is the suffocating part. Not his crush for Peem, not the slow evolution of their relationship, if there's any at all. But Peem.

He'd have every right to find Phum as irritating as he did initially. Hell, there are still some moments where it looks like he currently does. There's the boulder, there's the pressure.

Because what right does Phum have to feel anything akin to deserving? What right would his jealousy have to exist? He can't stand it. He can't. He can't feel entitled to such feelings entirely. It's all too easy to give when it comes to Peem, and yet, he can't make himself go all out, can't try to meddle too much.

Something is holding him back, shoving until only the churning of his stomach is palpable. He might know what, even if it's hard to admit it. He spots Kluen and his sweet eyes and Phum can only turn away, can only try to ease the twinge in his chest. It's not entirely foreign, this feeling. He's had in the past; helplessness comes in many forms. It aches all the more that he's felt it for Peem before, all because of his own stupid actions. And even if he somehow mended that whole situation, this one doesn't seem to give him any opportunity to act. Phum feels like he doesn't have a part in it, in a way. As if he's a mere spectator on the sidelines. And he loves to push, he loves to taunt. He loves every reaction that Peem would offer, because it's always been offered. Peem would be turned towards him, eyes as liquid as they can be impudent, pretty mouth pursed or grinning wryly. Words sharp, annoyed, indulgent. But here, he's not. He's looking elsewhere, his voice is muffled.

Phum feels like a mere shadow in those moments - the solid ground is slipping beneath his feet, his assurance is questioned, his presence doesn't feel required.

He hates it. Hates it. He's maddened by it. He can't stand it.

And truly, he wouldn't blame Peem for it. Couldn't. Can't. Peem has every right to feel good with anyone he wants. He has every right to not have a second thought about Phum besides, perhaps, some attraction and a binding deal. That may be the most unsettling thing, he thinks faintly, as he listens to Kluen admit that he might be hitting on Peem in the midst of all their friends. Nothing is truly assured between them.

Nothing but an agreement that's been tainted some in the past.

So he keeps quiet. He can't demand, he can't taunt. He can't do much besides a bit of pettiness that dissolves as soon as Peem scolds both him and Kluen.

He can't even muster words as Kleun straight up tells him, "I like Peem."

What is there to say? What can he say? He can't even make himself approach the slings, not with Peem's cheery voice, his laugh resounding in the open space. It doesn't feel safe, it doesn't feel necessary. So he turns away from it. With a wave of thoughts crashing down on him, and uncertainty pressing heavy on his limbs, he leaves somewhere it won't echo. And Phum thinks. Heavily so. Phum and Peem are just... They're just- "You like Peem, right?" Beer's face is softened by the shade of night, and his words don't twinge. Because Phum likes Peem. That's the most sure thing that quickens the beat of his heart. It's not a question.

But. But. It's there. That something. It's a dam. Phum likes Peem, yet he doesn't say anything. He sits quietly, hands tightening around each other as Beer goes on, tells Phum he's easy to read, that he's bothered, he's- "Actually," he begins lowly, eyes set on the stairs under them. "Peem and I have a deal."

It's easy to tell it from there, to explain the situation, even if the situation in itself is not. Because nothing of it is a question.

And of course, Beer is surprised, he's musing. And he's right, but he also isn't. Not really. Because Phum and Peem spent plenty of time together, and God they teased, they did so until the tingles in Phum's body became a requirement, a fond sensation. Until the tint of Peem's lips is the first thing his eyes linger on.

Because Phum likes, he wants, he's had, if only a bit. But does Peem? He may want, he may have had, but does he like? Phum doesn't know. So he tells his friend that, and it remains there. Even after Beer gives his quiet support, even after he's offered advice, Phum doesn't move, nor does his turmoil.

Then, Peem comes. His steps are slow, they're the calm that he always brings with him. Peem sits beside him, warm and gentle as always, and he's looking at Phum, gaze liquid; he's turned towards Phum, his words are crystal clear. He's here.

But is he, really?

"Is something wrong?"

No. No. Nothing. Nothing wrong. But Phum's heart doesn't quicken all that steady like it usually does when Peem decides to close distances between them. It's a loud drum, engulfing and stifling. His ears are ringing, just like they often do when disappointment is the only background buzz at home, when the hollow of his stomach scares off sleep. When arguing morphs into silence, and deafens him. He can't do it. He can't ask anything. He can't give in to Peem's gentle call of his name, the warmth of his hold as he circles Phum's wrist, asking to wait, talk to me.

He can't do it. Not again. Just- "I'm trying to sort out my feelings." Am I gonna lose you just like that? Is it always just that easy? Can I do anything? "Don't talk to me now."

Don't leave.

Even so, with that echoing until his heart learns to say it as well, Phum is the one to step away.

[ghoul-bonez]

~There Is Familiarity, Even In New Places~

(Neteyam x Fem! Na’vi! Reader)

Summary: A few days after you had met Neteyam he found you again where you least expected him, in face you had been trying to avoid him, but in the end maybe it’s meant to be.

Word Count: 5.7k

Author’s Note: LAST CHAPTER! Also sorry this took forever… lost motivation bla bla bla, but it’s here now! Not the happiest with the ending but I think it’s fitting :)

~Last - Next~

~Series Masterlist~

~Main Masterlist~

There Is Familiarity, Even In New Places

Freedom was something you valued so much. It was something you had in abundance, never held back from the things you wanted to do. Your freedom was something you knew could never be taken away from you, it would always be yours, and you would hold it close to your heart.

You were allowed to do as you pleased, trusted by your mother palulukan to make the right decisions. She knew she couldn’t hold you back, she knew you wouldn’t be stopped when you set your mind to something, so she gave you the freedom to go about your business in the way you wanted.

It hadn’t always been like this however.

When you were younger you were more limited, still trusted to make good decisions, but with supervision. Your mama palulukan had been more protective, but she had to be. There were so many things out in the forest that could hurt you.

Animals outside of your circle could become a big problem. The carnivores knew that you were young and defenseless, an easy target for a meal. The herbivores would scatter, possibly injuring you in the middle of their escape. They wouldn’t know you were on their side, raised by the forest. None of them would know you meant no harm, but your mama palulukan did, so she had to protect you.

The Na’vi were a whole other threat. They were strong, and although your mama palulukan could take them down easily, she feared what would happen when you saw the people who looked so much like you. She feared what they would do to you if they found a child raised by her, a palulukan, an animal that had no business with any baby Na’vi. She feared they would take you away.

They wouldn’t understand you were not one of them. You did not belong to them, did not belong with them. You belonged to many, but not them. You belonged to your mama palulukan, her raising you as her own, loving you as her own. You belonged to the other animals of the forest, the ones you considered your extended family who had helped teach you their ways.

You belonged to the forest…

You belonged to the trees… You lived amongst them, dodging and weaving between them as you ran. You loved them. You loved their limbs you use to climb. You loved their leaves that kept you camouflaged as you hid amongst them. You loved their trunks that kept you held up, swaying gently in the wind, but not letting you fall.

You belonged to the dirt… You cherished the ground beneath your feet. The dirt mixed with dead leaves and rocks and patches of grass. You loved the groundthat kept you grounded as you explored. It never threatened to fall out from beneath you, your feet always stable and steady. It kept you safe.

You belonged to the water… The lakes, and ponds, and streams. The ones filled with beautiful crystal clear water until you would jump in and stir up the dirt at the bottom, but even then the dirt would settle soon after and leave you in the cool water, it felt like a comforting hug as you submerged yourself. You loved the lakes that kept you cool on hot days. You loved the ponds that helped you keep clean and healthy. You loved the streams that quenched your thirst when you were in need.

Although your mama palulukan was protective while you were growing up, something she had always given you freedom on was your self expression. You were a collector, always had been, always will be, and often what you would collect would be incorporated into your hair, your weapons, your outfits.

You had always hated the feeling of your hair tied up, braided, or any other style, so your hair was loose, save for a few strands. The beads, feathers, and shells you found would often find themselves wound into small sections of your hair. The braids were loose, and sloppy, but did their job in keeping the trinkets in them.

Even before you had learned to braid your hair was a sight to behold. When you were around six you had found a plant that when ground up would dye things blue, and of course you had applied it to your hair. It wasn’t as vibrant as you had hoped, but it gave your hair a blue glow when the sun shone down on it. You loved it, but eventually stopped when you learned to braid and the residue from the plant started dying your hair trinkets blue.

Your weapons were special as well. They helped you in life, helped you to keep your life, so you wanted to honor them. To honor them you decided to gift them beauty. Their handles were smooth wood with complicated patterns whittled into them. Alongside the patterns carved into the wood were leather grips wound around them, but you were careful for the patterns of the leather to not cover or cross the wood’s. The blades were made of animal’s teeth, white and shiny, or colorful stones that came from deep in the ground, hardened by time.

Your clothes were decorated just as beautifully as your hair or weapons.

Your tops were often weaved in patterns where you could attach trinkets to them, to the patterns draped over your chest and the edges where the designs stopped. On portions where the weaving would tear or fall apart you would repair it with other materials, really whatever was around you at the time, but you preferred brightly colored plant fibers, sometimes even dying them when you had time.

Your loincloth was usually colorful, dyed meticulously, sometimes even with multiple colors. You loved them, and it was a pain to make another, so when there was damage to them you would patch them up. The holes would be covered with scraps of fabric you had weaved that were sitting around. The rips sewed up roughly, sometimes embroidered to look like the plants around you.

You would hang cords or ropes you had crafted with beads scattered on them onto the straps of your loincloth. They weren’t long, only hanging down to your mid thigh, maybe ten or so small beads. You loved the way they sounded as you would move, the beads clinking together. They were usually wooden, painted with small designs, done by yourself of course. Even if you knew anyone else you wouldn’t trust them with your perfectly carved beads.

You wore many beautiful necklaces, stacked one on another against the column of your neck. You didn’t own many that didn’t lay flat against your throat, none that hung down further, resting on your chest, as the risk of them catching on anything in the forest around you was too high. Alongside the necklaces were other jewelry, bracelets and anklets, and armbands galore. You had many, switching them out day to day depending on how you were feeling.

Your Song Chord was your favorite accessory. Most of the time it was tied around your waist like a belt, but it served no purpose like one. Instead you wore it to remind you of the life you have lived so far, what is to come in the future. When your mother palulukan had first recommended it you were confused, unsure of where she had gotten the idea, but you obliged, and now you loved it. You had many beads and trinkets on it. The first for your birth, then your mother palulukan finding you. Your first words, your first steps, your first hunt, and kill. Every milestone was on it.

When you met Neteyam you found how he dressed… odd. He was much less decorated than you, less accessories, and clothes not weathered from years in the forest. His clothes and hair looked neat, everything in place where you supposed it was meant to be. They were clean, and fresh, and didn’t have patches, unlike yours which had been mended with them many times.

What you didn’t know was that Neteyam loved the way you looked, the way you dressed. He loved how he could see the love you had for every little thing you found, how you used anything the forest gave you. He loved how colorful everything was, standing out against your blue skin. You looked wild, just like you were, and he figured it was meant to be that way. You were made to be that way.

As much as he loved studying your outfits, and the beauty of them, he almost envied you. The way you had the freedom to wear what you wanted. He was always expected to look perfect, neat, put together. He wanted just a little bit of freedom.

You seemed to have freedom in many more ways than him, not just in self expression.

You didn’t seem tied down to any responsibilities. He always found you out and about, seemingly with no mission, wandering, or the last time taking a nap. He wished to be able to do that, but he knew he would get bored without anything specific to do. He would get bored alone with nothing specific to do.

With you he figured it would be different. With you he knew there would always be an adventure. There would always be something fun to do, even if that was just teaching you the Na’vi language, if you wanted to learn, that is.

When you flew you really felt freedom, truly. You didn’t have to answer to anyone, to talk to or interact with another person. It was peaceful, you could simply exist by yourself. You weren’t completely alone, needing the assistance of an ikran to soar above the clouds, but your ikran friends seemed to realize you needed some time to yourself when you flew.

You had woken up early today, before the sun had returned to the sky, hoping to get your hunt over before Neteyam would be out and about in the forest. The forest was so much more peaceful without him, and you were so much more peaceful without him. You felt better when it was still dark, when you knew he wouldn’t be out, because there was no way he could be. You had convinced yourself, there was no way he could be.

It had been working, your assumption he wouldn’t be out had seemed to be correct, so you had been successful at avoiding him for the past few days. You hadn’t seen him since your last rest day that your mother palulukan had forced you to take, and you were grateful for that. You chose to ignore the pull you felt towards him, instead staying in your den after your hunts were done, napping all day instead of being out where he could find you. He always managed to find you.

Your mother palulukan loved you, and loved that you wanted to be home with her more often, but she also knew there was more behind it, and she had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Neteyam.

After the first couple days she became worried, what had happened to make you so upset that you didn’t want to leave the den after the sun lit the sky. What had Neteyam done? Had he done anything, or was it something to do with you?

Now on day five of your hideout she was growing frustrated. Frustration wasn’t something she felt with you often, not since you were younger, mostly in your early teenage years when you defied everything she said, but now she was feeling the ugly emotion once again.

She couldn’t exactly pinpoint why she was feeling this way, but she figured it had something to do with you being so against learning about your own kind. She had been strictly against it when you were younger, but as you got older she worried you were lonely, and when you seemed to be excited to meet Neteyam she had a change of heart, a realization that maybe you did need companionship from someone like you.

She wasn’t just feeling frustrated, but concerned. Maybe more so than frustrated. She was concerned about what had happened. Sure, you had seemed conflicted on Neteyam, but she didn’t think it was this bad. She worried something had happened, and knowing you it could have been anything out of your comfort zone that had pushed you just a little too far.

What had made you so intent on ignoring, or more like avoiding, Neteyam?

Maybe it was the fact that you didn’t want to acknowledge that there were others like you, when you had been sheltered your whole life. It was scary knowing they were out there, so much like you in looks, but at the same time so different from you, from your forest family. What if they wanted to change you, what would you do then?

Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the fact that you had realized something. Something big. Something that scared you more than anything else.

You had feelings for him, feelings that you didn’t know the name of, feelings you didn’t know how to process. You hadn’t ever felt this way before, and it scared you, but you weren’t completely adverse to it. You wanted to explore them, to explore him, but you weren’t ready for that yet, instead choosing to hide away in your home.

You had been counting the days, scratching tally marks into the wall, and maybe you were being overdramatic, expecting to stay inside longer, but on day five your mother palulukan confronted you. She had been slow, careful, in making her point, but she was also firm in her words. She had told you that hiding inside wasn’t good for you. She admitted that she was concerned about you, your sudden change of personality. She admitted she was frustrated that you seemed to be avoiding Neteyam, wanting you to make friends.

You had groaned and rolled your eyes, not wanting a lecture from your mama palulukan, but that seemed to be her last straw, and she drug you out of the den, dropping you outside the entrance and blocking you from going back in. You had growled at her, mean and harsh, frustration from your side now, but she ignored you, turning her back to you. When she wouldn’t let you back inside you threw your hands up in frustration.

You weighed your options. You could wait to be let back in, or you could do what she wanted to and go off to do your own thing. On one hand she would have to let you back in eventually, but you didn’t think that would be anytime soon, especially with how stubborn she could be. On the other hand you could just try to avoid Neteyam, stay away from where you had seen him before.

Away from the forest.

You supposed today would be a good day to frolic around the mountains, the weather was nice, and the sky was clear which would make flying up easy. You always preferred to fly up to one of the lower floating mountains, then climb from mountain to mountain on your own. You would go higher, and higher, until you reached the peak, and then you would feel at peace. You felt peace in the way that you only can when you’re alone.

When you got far enough from your den you called out to the sky in chirps, loud and pitched up, calling out for assistance in the way only she knew. Your head turned up to watch for what was coming, and when she arrived you smiled.

Espi was your favorite ikran friend. You had grown up next to her, and you had a stronger bond with her than any of the other ikrans you grew up with. The other ikrans carried you on their backs, but did not create Tsaheylu, instead relying on your voice to tell them where to go.

Espi was different though. When you were both old enough she had offered you her tswin, offering you her companionship and love, and of course you had accepted, creating Tsaheylu and forming a bond that would never be broken.

She was your best friend, and she always knew what you were feeling, Tsaheylu or not. She could feel that you were upset today, and when she landed she pressed her head into your chest, letting you hug her and pet down her neck, soothing her and yourself.

You cooed at her happily, before pushing her head away carefully, and connecting your tswin together and speaking to her, “Espi, we are going to the mountains today. I just need help getting up.” She nodded her head in understanding, and allowed you to hop onto her back before taking off into flight.

When you lifted off the ground and began your climb higher, and higher, into the sky, you smiled widely, and laughed, screaming with joy and Espi joined in, letting out a screech. You felt happiness surge in you, and you wondered why you hadn’t tried this yet, flying being a sort of therapy for you.

In the sky you felt your worries dissolve, floating away in the wind that whipped through your hair. You didn’t think about Neteyam, how you dreaded seeing him, yet you felt drawn to him. You didn’t think about your recent realization around him, that he was made for you, and you for him, the Great Mother willing you to be together. You didn’t think about the possibility of running into him, about avoiding him. You didn’t think about your mama palulukan, or her being upset with you.

You only thought about flying, and the sights around you.

The Hallelujah Mountains were always beautiful. They never failed to take your breath away, but today it was like the view punched you in the gut, losing your breath as you stared at them. They seemed to glow with the sun focused on them, no clouds obscuring your view of them. They glowed how you imagined Eywa did, she had made them after all.

You wondered if you would ever be perceived as beautiful as the mountains, to yourself, or anyone else. You wanted that more than anything else, for someone to admire you the way you admired one of your favorite things. One of your favorite places to be, one of the few places that brought you peace. You wanted to bring someone peace.

You didn’t want to admit it, but as you took in the view the mountains reminded you of Neteyam, both with their beauty, and their glow. They reminded you of your last encounter. Your last encounter where he was backlit by the sun, a glowing halo surrounding him as realization settled in your heart.

You wondered if you would ever be perceived as beautiful as Neteyam. Well, as beautiful as you thought he was. Even though you wanted nothing more than to avoid him you thought he was beautiful. Yes he was handsome, but more importantly his heart was beautiful. He was sweet, and didn’t let your harshness scare him off, still wanting to get to know you, even when you tried to push him away.

You wondered if you could ever live up to him. To his kindness, and his patience, and his dedication. His kindness that shows when you are mean to him, and he doesn’t fight back, seeming to understand. His patience that shows when you refuse to interact with him, but he still waits for you. His dedication that shows as he has seemingly dedicated himself to you, wanting you, even when you don’t want him.

Espi feels you lose yourself in thought, and so she screeches as you still ascend upwards, and you come back to the world in front of you. You’re back to the mountains, but more importantly the sky, and as you realize how far up you’ve gotten you realize her plan, and you can’t help but feel excited, adrenaline already starting to flow through you. You cheer her on, encouraging her to fly higher, and when she reaches the peak you hold on tight, knowing what’s coming.

You take a deep breath and she folds her wings in, allowing herself to fall. You flip and turn for a few seconds as she freefalls, and you feel the adrenaline for real now, knowing that if she doesn’t reposition soon it will be too late. Then what you were waiting for comes, and she points herself downwards, the nosedive as fast as you’ve ever gone, as fast as you can imagine going.

It is truly a feeling unlike no other when you know you are completely dependent on your partner, almost certain to die if your partner does not pull through. It is a feeling you have felt with Espi before, a feeling you hope to feel with her many more times. It was some sort of bonding exercise for the both of you, knowing that you rely on each other to survive.

When you almost reach the ground you shout at her to pull up, and just in the nick of time she listens to you, swooping upwards and taking you back into the air. Now out of breath, and tired from holding on for your life you ask her to land, and she obliges.

When her feet are stable on the ground you slide off, falling to the ground on your back and laughing maniacally, thanking the Great Mother for allowing you to live, but in the back of your mind you wonder if she would let you die, especially now after she had seemingly fated you to Neteyam.

You took a moment to calm down, a wide smile still on your face as you hopped back up to cradle Espi’s head in your hands, she was so much bigger than you, but it was like her head fit in your palms perfectly. Dragging your hands down her neck you thank her, before allowing her to do whatever she pleases, disconnecting Tsaheylu. You wished her goodbye before scampering off, onto your quest to reach the peak of the mountains.

Giggling to yourself, adrenaline still residing, although you were slowly losing it. Your heart beat hard yet steady as the adrenaline faded away you lost the hyper awareness that came with the hormone, no longer overwhelmed with every sound and motion around you like you had been when you landed. Now exhaustion was clouding your mind as you came down, your thoughts twisting and twirling as your body became sluggish.

You sighed, deciding to sit down for a second, forgetting your goal for the day momentarily. You wanted to rest, regain yourself a bit as your post adrenaline rush exhaustion left as well, so you wandered around, trying to find a nice place to sit.

As you trudged forwards you weren’t exactly paying attention to what was in front of you, eyes drooping towards the ground, not scanning your surroundings like usual. You knew it was dangerous to not be hyper aware of your surroundings like you usually were, but you couldn’t help it.

As you stumbled along your foot suddenly caught a tree’s root, sending you tumbling forwards where you ended up landing on your butt. Groaning you rubbed your hands down your face, gathering yourself to stand back up, but you were too slow, and a shadow loomed over you.

You had figured it was some animal, something you could fight off, but what caught you off guard was when they spoke, “You okay?”

Your eyes widened, and you felt adrenaline spike in you again as your brain took in the words you didn’t understand. You hissed loudly, it tapering off into a low rumble in your throat, threatening enough that it should have scared anything off. You stood up quickly and took a few steps backwards. You put as much space as you needed between you before studying the person in front of you.

You gasped, but it was more in relief than anything else, “Neteyam.” Of course it was him. Why wouldn’t it be him?

The relief was short lived as a sudden anger spiked in you. Well, maybe it was less anger and more frustration. There wasn’t really one particular reason the emotions reared their ugly heads, but instead a combination of thoughts swirling in your head.

You were angry, angry that he was here, in the mountains that you had deemed yours. You were frustrated that he was where you deemed he should not be. You had thought he was tied to the forest, but for some reason he was here. You were frustrated that you had been trying to avoid him by coming to the mountains, where he should not be, but somehow he had found you again.

Neteyam seemed to see the change from relief to anger on your face as you processed his presence, and he took a couple steps back as well, trying to give you more space.

“Sorry I scared you.” He tried to apologize, but when your face twisted with confusion he remembered you didn’t speak Na’vi. How had he forgotten? Maybe it was because he was so excited to see you again.

You just scoffed at him, rolling your eyes as you turned away from him, ready to leave. You wanted to leave, completely, not just him, but the mountains as well, ignoring your earlier goal of reaching the peak.

As you started walking away Neteyam rushed up, grabbing you by the shoulder to stop you, but instead of allowing him to have control of the situation you grabbed his wrist, gripping it hard, almost bone crushingly.

“No!” You shouted at him. Loud and in his face as you leaned in, from where you were holding his wrist.

You both seemed to realize this was the closest you had ever been as his cheeks tinted purple and you quickly let go of him, stepping back again, “No.” You reiterated from where your feet were planted on the ground, ready to run if he were to approach again.

Neteyam backed off, allowing you some space. He wasn't sure why he spoke when you couldn’t understand him, but it felt right as his voice came out, “Okay, okay, I won’t touch you…” He held his hands up, showing them off to prove they weren’t going to move towards you, “But I need you to trust me. Come with me.” He motioned his hands to wave you towards him as he started walking backwards, keeping his eyes on you.

You cocked your head to the side, not understanding his words, but you somehow knew what he was asking and felt compelled to follow him nonetheless. You approached him slowly, hesitantly, leaving a good amount of space between the two of you, but he seemed to realize you were following him, and the smile that spread across his face was magical. It made kenten take flight and flutter around in your stomach until they settled again.

He walked slowly, leading you to where he wanted to go, and you followed, of course you did. You followed behind him like a little lost nantang pup who was promised a way back to its mother, puppy dog eyes included as your wide eyes took in your surroundings, somehow you hadn’t seen this part of the mountains before.

The area you were in was beautiful, but Neteyam couldn’t focus on the beauty of it like usual, instead focused on you, who he kept taking glances at. He wanted to say he was looking so often to make sure you were still with him, but he knew it was because he couldn't keep his eyes off you, for many reasons. Reasons he did not want to put into words because then it would make everything too real.

Neteyam abruptly stopped in front of you, causing you to bump into his back with an “oof” before you scattered back. It was almost as if his skin burnt you, and the pain was excruciating. A new type of pain you hadn’t felt before, one that burned deep inside. Inside your body, your soul, your heart. Your heart which you placed a hand over to calm the organ that was beating twice as hard as usual after just the smallest contact with him. It was frightening.

Through spooked, wide eyes you looked around at your surroundings. It was possibly the most beautiful place you had ever seen, a sense of joy overtaking you in a way you hadn’t felt in a while. Not since you had met Neteyam, but you put that aside, choosing to take in your surroundings fully.

A tall cliff loomed above you, jagged rocks and vines growing over them, working their roots into the cracks and crevices where the rocks split. You had a momentary thought about climbing it, maybe for fun, or maybe to prove yourself, to show your worth to yourself, and maybe Neteyam. Maybe when you reached the top you would jump to what laid below, a pond big enough to swim in comfortably, but not too big as to ignite your fear of drowning.

A spectacular waterfall cascaded from the top of the cliff, splashing into the pond at the bottom, sending ripples throughout it, almost like the waves of the ocean, but instead of being intimidating it made you sway slowly, but only if you wanted it to, if you didn’t wish to follow the rhythm of the flow it was easy enough to hold yourself still.

While your eyes were off of Neteyam, admiring your surroundings rather than hyper-focusing on him, you seemed to lose him, not able to find him when you turned back to where he had been standing before. He was easy enough to find again as you turned to the edge of the pond where he was starting to wade into the water.

Neteyam smiled sweetly at you, his eyes shining with happiness, admiration, maybe even another word, love, but you weren’t ready to address that yet, and neither was he, so instead he spoke softly, “Come on in. I promise I don’t bite.” His smile turned wider, baring his teeth and showing off more of the whites than usual, but instead of the feral, wild animal, kind of way you usually would show yours off as you could tell he was being playful. You had never wished to know what he was saying more before, wondering what he meant by his playful tone and bared teeth, which would usually be a threat to, or from, you.

You smiled back, approaching the water carefully, and as you stepped in Neteyam backed up into deeper water to give you space. You didn’t give him the chance to go any deeper than where he was, the water already up to his stomach, as you circled him. He didn’t turn with you, well not his whole body, but his head was turned in your direction the whole time, watching you, studying you.

He was slightly worried by the seriousness on your face as you circled back around to the front, but he tried not to let it bother him as he intently watched you, studying you to see your next move, how you really functioned, how your brain worked.

What came next he couldn't have predicted, and a gasp left his throat as water hit him in the face, the coolness welcomed on his warm cheeks, but the action was surprising. You had splashed him? You had splashed him.

An amused smirk quirked up your lips before you burst out laughing, pointing at him, seemingly amused by him, most likely the shock written on his body, muscles tense, eyes wide, and mouth slightly agape. You had really thrown him for a loop. He quickly snapped back to the present and he sent a wave towards you, splashing you with the cold water and making you jump.

You continued sending wave after wave towards each other until you were fully soaked and getting tired, when you both sat at the edge of the pond. Your feet still dipped into the water as you hummed a song quietly, simply enjoying Neteyam’s presence. He didn’t say anything and you appreciated that, but maybe it was because he didn’t want to spook you off as you had sat next to him, closer, by choice, than ever before.

Neteyam was slow in putting his plan into action, scooting closer and closer as carefully as possible. Then when he was confident you weren’t going to run off he wrapped an arm around your shoulders slowly, oh so slowly, and you allowed it, even leaning into it. He couldn’t help but smile as you laid your head on his shoulder and soon after his cheek was pressed against the top of your head, him leaning into it as well.

You had never felt this safe before, even with the burning in your heart and soul, like you had set it in a pit of fire. It was a wonderful feeling, one you could get used to, but for now you were tired, so tired, and instead of lingering on it for much longer your eyes slipped closed. You drifted off to sleep, comforted by the burning which now dwindled to a comforting warmth like sitting in front of a bonfire on a cold night.

You drifted off comforted by him. He who you’re starting to place emotions to, no longer afraid to name some of them. Comfort. Admiration. Love.

Love in a different way than you had felt before. You love your mama palulukan in the way that she loves you like her own, always treats you with kindness, is always there for you. You love the forest in the way that it raised you, helped you become the person you are today. You love yourself and everything you stand for, becoming your own special individual as you grow day by day. You love them all, but in different ways, and a different way than Neteyam.

You love him, and you’re ready to admit that, or you think you’re ready to admit that. Maybe just to yourself, maybe not to the world yet, or your mama palulukan. Maybe you’re ready to accept your love for him inside, and maybe it will take a little longer to say it out loud, but you will get there eventually.

Word Bank:

Palulukan (Thanator)

Ikran (Mountain Banshee)

Tsaheylu (The Bond)

Tswin (Neural Queue)

Great Mother (Eywa)

Eywa (Na’vi goddess)

Kenten (Fan Lizard)

Nantang (Viperwolf)

@xstarsmvxz @netedoongie @c-h-i-l @rose-brulante @purple-imaginess @n7cje @celi-xxmoon @innercreationflower @btsiguess-kpop @hana-yuri

[acapellapotato]

There is the earth beneath our feet. Stable, constant as anything in this mortal realm can be, yet it can also rise up when least expected. This is domain of Evera. Twin to Sleria whose golden rays light the ground the mightiest forests spring from. She is who we turn to when the cold of winter begins to loosen its grasp. It is she who coaxes the shyest seedless to finally push through the soil; to bloom for all to see. It is Evera we turn to when we must find that seedling within ourselves. When we are called to tend the fragile though our own strength seems depleted. And when there is no other option but to rise up against those who see our kindness as weakness. The goddess of earth calls to those who are as steady as she. Who do the work that needs doing until it's done. Evera's path is one that stays straight through the clashing of empires, down to petty feuds between neighbors. It is not lightly that the voice of her children will shake. It is dire news indeed if one of them may roar. 

All lands are her body, the erupting volcano her heart, the rippling brook and storming seas her emotions manifest. Where she weeps for us mortals as her sister, Sleria, does her gifts are not made for war. They are meant to carry us through. So that we may withstand, as the earth does, all who try to lay claim on our lives. We are defenders. Our lady of the plains, of mountains, does not quickly forgive those who misuse her gifts. There is no sanctuary we can give that is safe from her sight. Remember this. We witches of the earth do not seek to forsake one who learned beside us. A fellow who, in the worst of days, may have even fought beside us. But if you stand against the six be sure you are in the right. Let no dark manipulations pull you into the schemes of either lowly men or haughty nobles, unless the shadows you court are for the greater good. 

It is a heavy burden when one finds themselves called to a path. Heavier still when it falls through circumstance on unwilling shoulders. Some will break. Some will quietly fade out like a candle as the dawn approaches. They are still our fellows. We will plant them somewhere new. We will seek the children of the sun to guide its healing rays where they need it most. This is as much our duty as any other that would gain us glory. There will be many who view the path of Evera as one of inaction, of apathy when we swear no fealty to one banner or another. This too you must withstand. It's not a choice that's asked with no acknowledgement of the loss one will face. To stand with your school, yourself, before family expectation and the blare of war trumpets. Here is where the test lies. Not in the years of study, but in action. When the option to step away from yourself appears one must decide if they will take it. There will be sorrow for each loss. Paths may cross again. They may circle through the years to bring one back where they began. And still our hearts will ache. To endure is not to be immune to pain. 

When we move, it may be slow but it is also purposeful. For our actions to follow only those our Lady would take. Though Evera can be as frightening as any goddess, it is not fear she hopes to inspire. We must encourage growth and renewal. When the ground has been scorched by flame, drenched by blood indistinguishable from one man to another, it is our duty to assure the earth that it's safe again to bloom. We are the voice that seeks to bridge the gap between all mortal life. It is tenuous. It is thankless more often than not. In moments where one feels most alone it will seem we are hated. Yet it's to be expected that the same walls which are ignored day to day, are the same ones that soldier and peasant alike pray will hold. This is the role we take on. Each elder passes this responsibility to a student only when they've made their choice. Evera moves our hands to nurture what may not grow in full during our lifetime.  We cannot let impatience hinder our responsibility to guide. 

- Teachings of the Earth Schools

[ofchaotics]

it's not her fault , and he hates to feel like she clings to the blame with a death grip like no other . if he had any sense , in this current rut of despair , maybe he would have solid words to offer her . it feels a bit like the world was beginning to crack and crumble beneath his feet , and at any given moment he'd be swallowed up whole . he knows what she must be thinking , that she's only contributed to this constant stream of let-downs and disappointments . all the words he wishes to say , all sugary sweet and reassuring , are caught up & tangled in the base of his throat . he wants to speak , but nothing comes out .

he needs to be strong , he knows that much . she needs someone to lean on , and who would he be if he continued to be a wreck ? she'll give him time , but how much was he willing to take ? he's abandoned everything behind him , scrapping the tour and taking an indefinite hiatus until he feels stable enough to do anything . this part , right here , feels like that downward spiral into an insanity both familiar & strange . a different shade of darkness that tries its hand at consuming him . he's all too adamant on being there for her , and knows that in turn , he'd put himself on the backburner . he'd recover . eventually . it feels hazy , there , the idea of ever being okay again .

calloused hands tangle through his disheveled curls , the subtle tug and pull . a frustration that bleeds deep . it's all there , beneath his skin , and he wants so badly to shed it all . go back to a time where the pain in his chest wasn't so fucking demanding . a heavy breath exhaled , trying his best to not fully fall apart in front of her . that voice in the back of his head screams to be strong . hold it together . the last thing she needs is to tend after him . surely , it should be the other way around . thinks he just needs a minute . to process . to grieve . to figure out what went wrong .

her touch grounds him . it feels a little bit better here . her warmth is a reminder that he's still here , that this isn't some sick nightmare he'd been trapped in . it's all too real , now , and he can feel the precipitation building behind his tired honeyed eyes . he feels it . that he must have done something wrong , because this wouldn't have happened again if he didn't . hands find solace at his face , fingertips pressed into his eyes . " it has to be me , avery . it has to be . this keeps happening . this always happens . it's me , isn't it ? "

@ofchaotics - con't here for mateo ( made new editor friendly )

It feels so unfair - like a betrayal of the body. That something everyone tells her is meant to be easy falls as a failure to her, that she must have FUCKED UP HARD for this not to work. It's difficult not to hold herself responsible here, feeling haunted by what once was, and the way that she lets him down. Mateo, she knows, is affected far closer to the bone. How he's two times unlucky, if even that, it's hard to say if that first girl he knew in the blushes of childhood love even had been in the first place. But that is neither here, nor there... the he same, and sting of it rings out the same for him. What was she, other than another letdown? That hurt wrenches within her heart... looms over what feels like a now haunted house inside of her.

Nothing is going to make it better, knowing when she tells him that he's left with that hollow feeling, same as her. That his family doesn't know what to say for it, given, she assumes, what they've seen in her before. They try to warn her that it's going to be bad, delicate in their handling, knowing that she was left to SUFFER TOO, half in shock for the fact that the news hasn't even settled. So disconnected she even looked pinched and confused when his mother offers to call Mateo home, saying, the tour is important, as if she forgot that this was too. It doesn't feel real... even when left with her thoughts so traitorous, she could only ever find herself rich with denial. It only becomes real, when he walks through the door.

His weight comes to the edge of the bed, as if left processing what she's told him. Avery can't blame him... part of her still sure he'd leave her for this, because they're talking about boneyards in their love, something so poisonous that she can't imagine he'd want to drink from her well, ever again. Love is never enough and she knows this, but she wants to hope because Avery loves him BEYOND MEASURE, even if right now she couldn't offer up much of anything beneath what still feels like a chokehold over her. All she can so is stare at the shoes he leaves in a haphazard pile, the mess of it all, the laces that aren't even undone, it feels so emblematic of the moment that she can only close her eyes against it.

What do we do, he asks her, and Avery, who was usually so quick, so immediate in her measures to find what to do, couldn't find a single thing to say for it. I'm sorry doesn't seem to cut it, and neither does I love you. Avery was at a loss for words, and all she could do was draw in closer to him, wrapping herself around the middle of him, eyes squeezed shut from where she's pressed to the back of him. "You did nothing." that much was true, how could it be him? When he was finally accomplishing everything he DREAMED OF, why did she have to be the one to screw it all up, to cast a dark pall over the joy he felt. She was the one who made a ruin of their dream, their love, and she can't help but cry for it, can she? Usually too fucking proud for it, but not with him, not with a loss like this.

- @ofchaotics

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Blankets/Shirt Collar Shifting Just Enough To Have Bandages Peeking Out for the H/C prompts?

At first, I had no idea what to do with this, but then when I was brushing my teeth the entire thing just wrote itself <3

Geralt can't stop looking. He's had problems with starting at Jaskier before, but never like this; never with fear in his heart or the taste of bile on his tongue. Never with the knowledge that this will be the last time or very close to it.

But Jaskier's doublet is undone and his shirt ripped, revealing bandages that Geralt wrapped himself; a stark reminder of Jaskier's humanity, of his fragility. He has no place being out here with a witcher or rather, Geralt has no place trying to keep him. All he can offer Jaskier is a broken heart and an early grave.

They don't speak on their way back to town and Jaskier probably thinks Geralt is angry with him. He had acted angry, had been angry with himself for letting anything happen to Jaskier, but he hates that this is the last memory Jaskier will have of him. Geralt grits his teeth because he can never let anything like this happen again.

The inn is big and busy when they enter and all Geralt can think is that it will make it easier for him to slip out unnoticed. He rents a single room - a tiny token he allows himself, to spend one final night with Jaskier - and they make their way silently up to it. Their room is on the third floor and it is still early enough that Jaskier would normally hurry to the window to inspect their view, but he doesn't. He sets his things down and sits on the edge of the bed, carefully pulling off his doublet.

Geralt watches him, aches when he winces and wants so badly to go to him, to help him undress and tuck him into bed. But he doesn't. This is his fault and letting himself have Jaskier now is only going to hurt them both more tomorrow. So he strips mechanically out of his armour and his own clothes, taking extra care to lay them out neatly for the following morning.

When he can delay no longer, he turns to find Jaskier already in bed, turned away to face the wall. Geralt shuts his eyes and sighs softly. This won't be an amicable parting, then. He didn't expect it to be, not really, but he was hoping they might have one final night of normalcy before Geralt returned to the solitude of the path.

He slips into bed next to Jaskier, barely daring to breathe and shuts his eyes.

It's not yet dawn when Geralt wakes. Jaskier has shifted in his sleep, lying on his back with his lips slightly parted. He wrinkles his nose in his sleep and Geralt's stomach drops. He wonders if he'll ever be truly happy again knowing Jaskier is out there somewhere, but not with him.

He slips out of bed quietly, dressing only on his clothes and wrapping his armour for easy transport. He leaves his coin purse on the nightstand. Jaskier has been paying for most of their lodgings lately and it would be cruel for Geralt to leave him alone with nothing.

Geralt makes it to the stables before he breaks down. Emotions too numerous and varied to count boil up within him and he clenches his hands around the reins, forcing back tears. Roach nudges him with her nose, but he can't even bring himself to lift his head.

He doesn't know how long he stands like that before he pulls himself together, but the grey light of morning is creeping across the valley as he rounds the inn. There, sitting on the front steps wrapped in a sheet, is Jaskier. He doesn't stand up, he just looks at Geralt and Geralt feels as though he's been kicked in the stomach.

"You were just going to leave?" Jaskier asks, "After all this time, you were just going to leave without even saying goodbye?"

Geralt opens his mouth to speak, but nothing happens.

"I knew you were mad, but I thought I warranted a goodbye at least. Twenty years, Geralt."

He sounds devastated. Geralt always knew he'd break Jaskier's heart, but he didn't think he'd be around to witness it.

"It's for the best." Geralt says and when he glances up he can see the bandages again, more prominent without clothing in the way.

"For who?" Jaskier snaps, "because it's certainly not for me."

"Maybe you don't see it yet-" Geralt starts, but Jaskier interrupts, rising to his feet and storming over to him - the effect of which is slightly lessened by his rumpled hair and bedsheet.

"Fuck you, Geralt. I tried to save you. I did save you! I almost had to watch you fucking die and this is the thanks I get? I don't fucking think so. I deserve more than being left in the middle of the night. And I know you, I'd never see you again if you didn't want me to."

He reaches out and shoves him and to both their surprise, Geralt stumbles.

"You're right," Geralt says. "You deserve so much more. you deserve a life and you won't have one if I keep dragging you along with me."

"Dragging me-" Jaskier shouts, exasperated, "like there's anywhere else I'd be as happy. Geralt you're a big fucking idiot if you think leaving me is going to make me safe. Because that's what this is about isn't it? I thought you were mad but you're just freaking out because of this-" he grabs Geralt's hand, pressing his palm over the bandages, right above his heart.

Geralt can feel the firm, steady beat of it and he very nearly chokes.

" I'm right here," Jaskier says softly and when Geralt looks up he can see tears welling in his eyes, "right where I've always been." He folds both his hands over Geralt's and the sheet slips around his shoulders.

"Don't go," Jaskier whispers and Geralt breaks.

His knees buckle and he winds up on the ground with Jaskier in his lap, pressing him tightly against his chest. Tears burn the backs of his eyes and he buries his face in Jaskier's hair.

"I almost lost you," he chokes, "what would I do- if you-"

"Shh," Jaskier soothes, petting his hair. "I told you, I'm here. it's going to take a lot more than a fiend to get rid of me."

Geralt makes a small broken sound in the back of his throat and buries his face in Jaskier's neck. It's light before either of them moves and then it's only because Jaskier shivers.

"I'm okay," he insists, but Geralt bundles him back anyway, looking sadly at him. "Please come back to bed," he whispers, "tomorrow I'll book us another day and we can relax, spend the whole day in bed."

Geralt says nothing, but he lets Jaskier pull him to his feet. He follows him to the stable to settle Roach again and then Jaskier takes him back up to bed.

This time, Jaskier curls around him, pulling Geralt's head against his chest. Geralt hates the sight of the bandages, but when he lifts his hand he can feel the strength of Jaskier's heartbeat beneath them. And he focuses on that, that after everything they've been through, Jaskier is still standing strong. That maybe Geralt has more to offer him after all.

[rattyoakenbitch]

❝𝐢𝐟 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝❞ ─ 𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧

i don't want your sympathy, i guess ive had it rough but you don't really care

❥ content ; gn reader, eventual fluff, angst, pining, happy ending

❥ warnings ; injury, swearing, mentions of death

❥ synopsis ; when you get badly injured during a mission, only then does levi realize the depths of his feelings for you. now the question is, is it too late?

❥ a/n ; i don't have a taglist yet so feel free to ask to get added!

You glided through the trees alongside your team, adrenaline running through your veins.

Kicking yourself off a tree, you landed your body with ease onto a lone Titan spotted in the forest below you. With a swift swing of the blade, the Titan was on the ground.

Finished, you zipped yourself back into the air, joining your team member's formation as you all flew together.

"Y/N!" Captain Levi shouted, resent dripping off of his words. Here we go again. "Do not deviate from original course! We are here to scout, not to thrill seek."

The team came to a slow. They stood on the branches, overlooking the land beneath them.

"I was not thrill seeking, sir, I was doing my job," you defended, turning to Captain Levi. Though he was shorter than you were, his cold stare and unwavering demeanor intimidated you.

"Your job is to follow my orders, brat, not go off wandering like an idiot!"

"I didn't wander, I was quick to regroup! You're just finding a reason to take your anger out on me," you retorted. "Then again, I wouldn't be surprised. Considering your height, it's no wonder you can barely contain your anger in such a small body."

As much as he wanted to push you off the tree, Levi kept his poise.

By now the team could hear you and Levi's bickering, but considering they were used to it, they decided to butt out and focus on planning the route.

"Stable duty when we get back."

And then he walked away, leaving you fuming.

As you continued with the scouting mission, you encountered too many Titans that you couldn't just brush them off. Angry and left with no choice, Levi shouted orders to forget the original plan and fight back.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted two Titans approaching Jean and Armin with intent. You narrowed your eyes. This was your chance. You bolted off the tree, flying fast towards the two Titans. You got your gear out, ready to slice their napes, when one of the Titans looked your way, a sick smile on its face.

"Y/N!" Armin called out in a panic as the Titan extended its arm, swiping at you like a fly. Before its hand could collide with you, you were pushed out of the way by none other than Levi.

He wrapped his arms around you securely, one underneath your bottom and his other around your back. You heard him whisper a profanity, his hot breath fanning your neck as he spoke. Though it wasn't the time or the place, you couldn't help but let your mind wander.

You were brought back to reality when Levi glided deeper into the forest, setting you down onto the ground harsher than necessary.

Totally caught off guard, your back was shoved against a tree. Levi was quick to block your exits, predicting you would try to resist.

His arms caged you between him and the tree, leaving little to no distance between your bodies. You could feel your face get hot, either out of embarrassment or his body heat mixing with yours.

"What the hell is wrong with you, brat?!" Yelled Levi, eyes wild with rage. However, something felt different about this compared to when he scolded you for separating from the group. But you couldn't quite put your finger on it.

"Me?" You scoffed. "You're the crazy psycho who stole me away and cornered me in this forest!" You pushed at his chest, successfully shoving him off of you. "I had everything under control."

"You were almost killed! I can't have reckless people on my team. I'm a captain, not a babysitter, so get your shit together or get the hell off my team."

You stood against the tree quietly, Levi's venomous words stunning you into silence. Levi continued to stare deep into your eyes, his expression never changing. However, as the seconds passed, you saw a sliver of regret in his eyes, lasting only for a mere second.

You took a deep breath, trying to choose your words carefully. "I- Just.. Why do you hate me so much?"

Levi raised a brow while you continued to speak.

"I know I'm not the best fighter. Not compared to Misaka or Eren. But what did I do to deserve so much hatred from you? Even when I'm not doing anything wrong, you look at me like I'm the most disgusting person you've seen."

Despite feeling a sting of guilt at your words, Levi put on a dismissive act. "Tch, you're being dramatic. I'm not about to discuss this with you."

Why the fuck did he say that?

"Maybe if you listened to me for two damn seconds you wouldn't get such an earful."

Why is he being such an asshole? Gods, just tell them already. Stop this bullshit.

No longer finding it in you to care, you began to raise your voice, angry tears spilling down your face. "I try my best to make you like me. I try to show you that I'm capable and strong, but you still treat me as if I'm inferior. Like my skills are nothing. Like I'm nothing."

Emotionless, Levi replied, "Because you are. Look at you. You're a crybaby. You should've stayed back." Lies. All lies.

"Ugh- well maybe you should've just let me get killed since you despise me so much!"

With that, you grab your gear and zip away as far from Levi as possible, tears blowing out of your face and into the wind.

"Hey, where are you going?!"

You ignored him as you continued to speed through the trees, searching for your team. Your friends. Anybody.

"Y/N! Look out!"

You heard Eren shout, making you spin around frantically to search for the danger.

There it was.

An Abnormal ran your way, crawling like a dog on its hands and feet.

It had been chasing the team for a while now, evident in its animalistic, hungry look.

Steadily hanging off a branch, you watch the Titan from afar, then look back at the team.

"I'll distract it! You guys go!"

They looked at you as if you had grown two extra heads.

"You'll die!" Mikasa argued. "We can take it!"

"Just go!"

The Titan started to get closer. The team looked behind you, then back at you. Though they looked ready and determined to take it down, you knew they felt as terrified as you were. Fighting Titans was just something you don't think you'll ever get used to.

"Please be careful. We're gonna find Captain Levi!"

You nodded, then turned around, watching as the Titan ran towards you, totally disregarding the rest of the team.

"You want me? Come get me."

When you decided it was close enough, you darted into the forest and soared through the trees, only narrowly missing them. The Abnormal followed you, but hit itself on the trees and destroyed many in the process.

While the Abnormal continued to run through the forest, leaves and trees blocking its direct vision of you, you took a chance and turned back, flying past the Abnormal.

You did a quick u-turn and hopped onto its back.

You got it now.

As it chased after nothing, completely unaware, you slashed the nape of its neck.

With you still on its back, the Titan went limp mid-jump, falling onto the ground hard enough to create an earthquake. Unprepared for the collision, you went flying off its body.

Instead of bracing yourself for the fall, you frantically reached for your gear in an attempt to glide back up to the trees.

Before you got the chance, your body met with the ground, a loud thud echoing from the impact.

In the distance, the rest of the team continued to fight until they got to the very last Titan. Levi, though he was the last to regroup, helped effectively take down the Titans.

It wasn't evident in his stoic expression, but he searched among his surroundings and the faces of his team for you, afraid the worst had happened. Dammit, why did he have to be such an asshole? What Levi said to you, he meant none of it. But he feared he wouldn't get the chance to tell you that. Idiot.

"Is everybody here?!" Levi shouted as his team gathered around him.

"Yeah, we're alive-"

"Wait, where's Y/N?"

The team began to search among themselves, now becoming anxious as well.

"Well, where are they? Did you not see them at all?" Levi asked in a calm tone, despite his heart beat pounding in his ears. No. He wasn't going to slip up. Not here, not now. He needed to remain strong.

Mikasa spoke up. "We last saw them when we were being chased by an Abnormal! They offered to distract it and take care of it themselves."

Levi shouted, a crack in his voice, "And you let them?!"

"Y/N is strong! One of the best fighters we have here," Eld said. "They've probably already taken it down by now."

"Then where are they?!" Levi growled, becoming more frustrated by the second.

"Hey, look!" Armin yelled, shaking his finger towards the steam in the distance. "Eld was right! Y/N did kill it after all!"

Wasting no more time, Levi commanded the team to follow him. Soon again, they were up in the trees, running your direction. They stopped as soon as they came across a clearing in the forest where the Abnormal laid lifelessly.

"Everyone! Find Y/N!"

The team split, searching the area for any sign of you.

Levi dreaded the thought of finding you like they found the Titan. No. You killed it. You had to be alive.

Levi repeated that in his head. You had to be alive.

Because if you weren't, he wouldn't know what he would do.

Your eyes shot open at the sound of panicked screams echoing around you. You pushed yourself off of the ground in a rush, only to stumble back with an agonizing scream, pain shooting up the lower half of your body.

"Fucking hell! Oh shit," you fell back on the grass defeatedly, hot tears welling in your eyes at the intense pain and aches across your whole body. "Dammit!"

You didn't know which bones were broken, where you were, if you were bleeding out. So you just laid there alone, helpless and numb. Waiting.

Just when the team was beginning to lose hope, a blood curdling scream echoed throughout the forest, easily catching the team's attention. They headed towards the source of the sound, but Levi was the first on it, already sprinting through the forest to find you.

When he did, he felt his heart drop down to his stomach. You laid in a small clearing behind some old trees and bushes, a puddle of blood beneath your body. Your uniform was torn and your 3DMG was rendered useless at this point. If not for the scream, or the fast rise and fall of your chest, he would've mistaken you for being dead.

Levi rushed to your side and got onto his knees, lifting up your body into his arms.

"Y/N? Can you hear me? Y/N?"

You coughed, wheezing and struggling to make a coherent sound. Blood dripped down the corner of your mouth as you spoke, "You were right, Captain. I never stood a chance, did I?Shoulda just stayed." You laughed pitifully.

Now Levi was angry, but not at you. "Shut up! Don't say stupid shit like that! You're going to be okay."

The team found you, stopping short at the sight of Levi holding you carefully, like a porcelain doll, ready to break.

He didn't care anymore. He didn't bother to put up a front. Not when you were like this, half dead in his arms. He pressed his forehead to yours, whispering in your ear so only you could hear.

"I can't lose you too.."

Everyone else only continued to watch the intimate scene unfold before them.

When you fell unconcious, Levi squeezed his eyes shut, trying his best to keep his composure. Why was he acting like this? Usually he would be quick to solve problems without letting his feelings get in the way. Why was he so helpless now?

He turned around, scowling at the group who just stood by idly.

"Get over here and help them, you fools!"

You hated it. You hated having to be looked after or saved like a princess in a children's storybook. You didn't want to run away anymore, or simply stand in waiting, hoping for someone to rescue you. You were done being hunted. So you joined the Scouts after years of hard work and training. If you had only thought more carefully or put your parent's advice in consideration, you wouldn't be in your current situation, regretting ever joining Levi's team. You wouldn't have ended up in the infirmary.

You passed out in Levi's arms after suffering from injuries during your fight with the Abnormal Titan, according to your friends. They came by to visit you when the medic alerted them that you had woken up from your coma.

"How long was I out for?" You winced as you massaged your still pounding head. "When did I even get here?"

"You've been unconcious for two days. We retreated to the city as Captain Levi instructed and you've been under their care since," Eren answered. He noticed your demeanor as you looked around the room and picked at your skin, a nervous habit you recently formed. "Everybody's alive, so don't you worry."

"Where are they?"

"Well, they did have to receive medical attention since they got hurt, but they're okay! They miss you, ya know?" Armin said excitedly. "We'll make sure to fill you in on everything when you're out of here."

You pursed your lips. "Speaking of which, when will I be discharged?"

"You can't exactly walk right now, but.. you should be up and ready to go within a week! Then we can go on another mission and-"

"Eren. Armin. Mikasa." Your attention was torn away from Eren, your eyes darting towards the source of the voice.

"Captain Levi!" They all exclaimed in unison.

"I would like to speak with Y/N in private." He glanced at trio, his eyes narrowing. "Out."

The three walked out, heads bowed like sad little puppies. You waved at them as they went before turning to Levi who now stood by your bed.

"What do you want?" You asked bitterly, nose scrunching up in a sneer.

"Commander Erwin informed me of your decision," he spoke softly, differing from his usual cold tone.

You huffed. "Yeah, took your advice and resigned. You won't have to worry about babysitting me anymore."

A pang of guilt shot through Levi's heart, causing him to flinch. He hoped you didn't catch that.

He remembered his own regretful words as it replayed in his head. Just like your cries and pained expression, which he was unable to simply brush off, he couldn't forget how he mistreated you. And he would never forgive himself, either. The sight of your injured body laying there, all alone. He couldn't shake the scene off his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Even in his dreams.

Evident in his eyebags that seemed to have darkened in shade, he wasn't able to get much sleep the past couple days because of it.

"I take it you hate me, then," Levi suggested, prompting you to laugh mockingly.

"Oh, no, I could never," you said, sarcasm dripping off your voice as you fake fawned over Levi. "Levi Ackerman, Humanity's Strongest.. I just adore you."

Levi hid his offended expression and ignored your antics as he continued. "I was afraid I couldn't get the chance to apologize to you. When I found you there, I.." He squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his brows together, forcing his tears not to fall. Why now?

"Yeah, well, you fucked up. About time you feel a little heartache," you mumbled, looking around the room, anywhere but Levi.

"A little?! Look, I'm trying to apologize here!" He shouted. "Do you have no idea how fucking terrified I've been for you, you brat?!"

"No, Captain Levi, so why don't you enlighten me on how much you care?!" You huffed, crossing your arms. "Because if you did, then maybe I wouldn't be bed ridden!"

Levi's face softened at the sight of a single tear escaping your eye. He took a seat on the bed beside you and reached out to brush away your tear.

With your quick reflexes, you caught his hand and pushed it back towards him.

"Don't you dare touch me. You've done enough damage, Levi. Just go and stop wasting my time."

Just like you, he was stubborn. He stood his ground.

"I-I'm sorry."

You let out an exasperated sigh. "You must think I'm stupid. No way I'm buying that bullshit."

"You need to stop pushing me away, Y/N!"

"What is that, an order?" You taunted. "You don't get to be sorry, Levi. It's too late for that. You waited for me to almost die just to tell me that? Is that what it takes? What if I hadn't survived? What then?"

"You don't think I haven't thought about that?! That's why I'm here!"

"Yeah, and who's fault is that?"

"You should've listened to me! I was trying to protect you!"

"Well thanks a lot. Now both my kneecaps are broken and I won't be able to walk for weeks!" You shake your head. "You think just because we shared a moment while I was dying that I'm okay now? Trust me, if I had the strength, I would have slapped you then and there."

"Then why don't you now?"

"At this point, you're not even worth getting angry over. So stop giving me that pitiful look. I really prefer you shouting at me instead. At least I'm used to it." You mumble the last part, but Levi catches it easily.

"That's it then, you leave me no choice." You look at Levi curiously. "You infuriate me, brat, you really do. You're so careless and oblivious all the time, you forget to look after yourself. And I'm not ready to watch you throw away your life so irrationally from the sidelines."

"So what are you trying to tell me, Levi?"

"Tch, you're just gonna make me say it, aren't you?" He takes a deep breath. "I'm not good at this, and I hate to admit it, to you of all people. It makes me mad to see you risk your life because I care about you.. and I can't lose you. I've dealt with too much death. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you alive, even if it means dying.." Levi trails off, then scoffs and crosses his arms like a petty little child. "I said it, all right? I like you-- A lot, you stupid brat!"

You searched Levi's eyes for any trace of dishonesty. You hoped he was lying, like he had some sort of script prepared before he came to see you. But you found no lies in his eyes.

You felt your heart break. All this time when you thought Levi just really hated you, he was looking out for you.

"I.. Why didn't you just tell me?" Your voice fell apart as you spoke. "I tried so hard to make you like me back.. And it hurt because I thought you just hated my guts. I had no idea."

"I know, I was being stupid too- It shouldn't have come to this," Levi admitted. "I.. I'll let you rest now."

Levi stood up to leave, but you were quick to pull him back onto the bed with you. Without letting him react, you grabbed his face and interlocked your lips with his. All the tension in his body disappeared and he melted into the kiss, throwing his arms around you tightly like he'd lose you if he ever let go. It wasn't a soft, romantic, movie perfect kiss. It was desperate, tongue and teeth, hands wandering, disheveling the other's hair. You released all of your built up anger and resent, letting it fuel you while you aggresively fought your tongue with his, a faint taste a hint of alcohol now on your own mouth. Occasionally you'd both break the kiss for short intakes of breath and small whispers like 'don't scare me like that again' and 'I've needed this for a while now'. You couldn't help but moan, earning a grin from Levi as he continued to hungrily devour your lips. Just as things escalated, you remembered you were still in the infirmary, and anyone could walk in any minute now. You slowly pulled away, your chest heaving as you panted for breath.

Levi couldn't help but twist his lips up into a little smirk. That was new.

"Well at least you're not a bad first kisser," he spoke nonchalantly, still gasping for air. You playfully punched him in the chest.

"Quite the romantic, aren't you?" You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from smiling like an idiot. "You're not bad either, old man."

Blush spread across his cheeks.

He took your hand in his, bringing it to his swollen and raw lips and placed a small kiss on your knuckles.

"Promise me you won't leave me again?"

"Promise," you sighed blissfully. "And I guess I'll have to tell Commander Erwin about my change of plans."

"Actually," a deep voice spoke. At the door, there stood none other than Commander Erwin. "I think I already know."

[light-yaers]

Fools in the Darkness: Chapter Nine

Darkling x Reader

Warnings: Death, violence, drugs (Parem), NSFW and sexual content. This content is explicit and 18+ at some points.

A/N: OHOHOHHOHOHOHHO. That’s all I can say about this chapter. Hope you enjoy it. All of you need to go to horny jail. 

Buy me a Ko-Fi

Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 3.7k

Chapter Nine

“I have a feeling I know how this story ends,” Jesper said sadly. You found yourself scoffing at him.

“No, you don’t,” You said lightly. “I still don’t know how it ends,”

“What do you mean?” Kaz spoke up, interested suddenly. You let out a sigh, sending a glance over to Inej who was watching you so closely; so worriedly.

“He’s still looking for me, still trying to find me. He doesn’t know I crossed the Fold—,”

“You crossed the Fold?” Kaz interrupted, standing abruptly. “Why? How?”

“You—you should be dead,” Inej said timidly. She was right, they were both right to react in such a way. It was almost impossible really, to cross the Fold on your own. No skiff, no secure route, no way of knowing what would happen when the dark swallowed you whole.

You thought then about telling them how—telling them how you did it and came out of the dark with nothing more than a few scratches on your body; but a lot of scratches in your mind. But you chose not to; that was the end of the story.

If it ended, then maybe... they’d throw you out. Cast you aside. Be done with their interest in your sad little life. You were scared that they’d leave you, even though you hardly knew these criminals. You were scared that you’d be alone again, when the weight of realisation that you’d been alone all along at the Little Palace had hit you so hard before.

All you wanted was security, stability, a home, a family.

“I know,” You finally replied, forcing yourself to smile. “You’re getting too far ahead, though,” Kaz slowly descended into his seat once more, fingers curled tightly around his crow-headed cane. You wondered then, what it felt like to constantly have something on your person.

Inej with her knives. Kaz with his cane. Jesper with his pistols.

You had no such thing, unless you counted the raggedy old Kefta on your shoulders, but you didn’t particularly want to. You’d hated it from the beginning; you’d only worn it because of him.

You could still remember the first time you’d ever donned it.

The Little Palace, Six Months Ago

“Hey! Hey!” Genya’s yells cut through the forest easily, as if the trees allowed her voice to penetrate through them to hit your ears. You stopped training as she approached, breathing heavily, her face blotched with red.

“Genya,” You said, amused, jogging over to where she was hunched over, catching her breath. “Did you run here?”

“No... horses... left...” She heaved out, waving a hand in front of her face in place of a fan. “Saints—that woke me up,” You placed a supportive hand on her shoulder, on the brink of laughing at her flushed face.

“What’re you doing?” You questioned, as she started to calm down. She sucked a breath deep into her lungs, regarding your amused expression.

“It’s the General,” She said. Your face immediately dropped as your heart catapulted into your throat. “He’s back,”

You waved Genya off as she rode your horse back to the stables. There was more than enough space for both of you on the steed, but you needed time to calm your trembling limbs. The walk back would be able to offer you that.

It’d been four months since Aleksander had left the Little Palace. Time had gone fast, but also agonisingly slowly at the same time; which still confused you as to how that was even possible. His face had been forever etched in your mind since that night—his timid knocks, his abrupt and unapologetic kiss, the way his fingers roamed your bare skin like an extension of your own body.

Your heart had been aching ever since, but you’d tried to replace that void with training. You worked hard, mercilessly, tirelessly, so that Aleksander would be able to marvel at your improvement after his return.

He’d sent letters, but rarely. You had three in total, scrawled down in rushed handwriting by a man who you imagined to be busy beyond belief. But he’d still sent them; he’d still checked in with you, sent his words of affirmation, adoration—

Craving. Words of craving and longing and the obviousness that he was missing you.

You kept those letters in the locked drawer of the desk in your chambers, keeping the key secure in the cabinet at your bedside. Maybe it was supposed to be secretive, maybe it was supposed to be kept in the dark—or maybe you were overanalysing it all—but you didn’t want people prying. You didn’t want the extra pressure or scowls or attention that would no doubt come from having this kind of relationship with the General.

If it even was a relationship. You opted not to call it as such, not fully understanding what Aleksander even saw in you, wanted from you—liked about you.

As much as these four moths had been incredibly lonely, you couldn’t stop the uncomfortable wave of anxiety that beat through your entire body as you walked back over the fields to the palace. Beyond those cream walls and gold trim and décor, Aleksander would be back inside.

Waiting for you.

You’d improved; there was no doubt about that. There was a small thought then, when you got ever closer to the palace, that perhaps you should show off. You could already see the hub of carriages and Grisha in the distance, surrounding the General upon his return—

And Saints, maybe it was jealously, or excitement, or fear—

But there was something urging you to summon the air and glide to him. Show him what you’d learned, what you were capable of, what you’d taught yourself in his absence.

You took in a deep breath, bringing your hands together quickly. The air surrounded you almost instantly, circling your body and ruffling your hair and blouse as it descended to your feet. Within seconds, you were hovering atop the mound of air at the ground, and as you directed your hands forward, the air followed your commands.

You were propelled forward quickly, gliding effortlessly up the remaining fields until you were back on the palace grounds. You kept going, rounding the stables and slaloming between plant pots and other garden décor, until you approached the courtyard in a flash.

A few Grisha squealed at your arrival, parting the crowds around Aleksander’s carriage and making way for your storm. You lowered your hands then, jumping to the floor as the air at your feet dissipated into nothingness. You took one step forward, and all of a sudden his eyes were on yours—

His stare unwavering, his shoulders broad and brooding, his eyes as dark and deep as the time he’d left; but the smile on his face was one that you’d never seen before. Some mixture of longing and nostalgia and awe. He was impressed, as his eyes roamed down your body until they hit your feet, where your summoned pocket of air had been just moments before.

He trailed his gaze back up your body, landing upon all of the places that he’d touched before. You skin buzzed beneath your clothes, set alight by his stare that you hadn’t realised just how much you’d missed him, until he was stood before you once more.

Aleksander turned, fully, to you then, approaching you slowly, step by agonising step.

“General,” You spoke first, trying to bat away the huge grin on your face into something more subdued. “You’re back,” You added, with a lack of what to say, other than I missed you, Aleksander. Saints, you wouldn’t say that here, not around the other Grisha.

“I see you’ve... improved,” He said softly, trickling his rough voice over you warmly. Saints—you’d missed that fucking voice.

“I suppose that’s up to you, Sir,” You replied, ignoring the tension that floated between the two of you like a storm cloud, just waiting for thunder to crack and lightning to flash.

“Let’s discuss your improvements later. This evening, in my office,” He stated. You tried to keep your expression flat; professional.

“I’ll see you then, General,” He shot you a smile before moving away. The crowd of Grisha and officers dissipated as Aleksander made his way to the palace, and all too soon the black of his uniform was hidden behind the closed doors.

Genya came up beside you then, crossing her arms as an amused smile littered her face. “Someone’s happy to see you,” She said slyly. You shoved your elbow into her rib softly, giving her a light push.

“Shut it,” You said, but there was no denying it. You were happy, the happiest you’d been in months, seeing the stubble that dotted his chin and the pensive look he reserved solely for you. You didn’t care about the murmurs surrounding your abrupt entrance or the obvious secretive nature that you and Aleksander conversed in from the other Grisha—you only cared that he was back.

He was back with you, after what felt like years.

You couldn’t shake the smile from your face when you walked through the upper corridors of the Little Palace, headed back to your chambers that evening. You couldn’t shake the excited energy that coursed through your veins or the anxious buzz that you got from imagining being alone with Aleksander again, after so long.

“He’ll get bored, you know,” Her voice was the only reason the smile drained from your face then, as you stopped in the corridor and turned back.

Zoya stood in the middle of the hallway, silhouetted by the dwindling evening light. You’d recognise her defensive stance and tense shoulders anywhere. “He always does,”

You’d almost forgotten what it was like to be face-to-face with her, after so long avoiding her presence. But all too soon that uncomfortable feeling hit your gut whenever she was around; fear of the unknown.

“What are you talking about?” You replied, but you knew she was talking about Aleksander. She took a few confident steps forward, brooding and almost frightening in this isolated part of the palace. You kept your guard up strongly.

“Kirigan loves girls that he can mould to his own perception. You’re just another in a long line of Grisha that he’s taken an interest in,” Zoya said, her voice coarse and unforgiving. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You didn’t know what to say.

“Let me guess, he called you special. He called you powerful and strong. He’s littered your mind with ego-building drivel and promised you what you desire the most,”

You were stunned by her words, as your mind started fretting the last six months under this roof. But—this was also Zoya. Zoya, who hated your fucking guts. Zoya, who was endlessly jealous of any woman that stood by Kirigan’s side. Zoya, who evidently had qualms with the General himself that had been long forgotten by him.

You refused to acknowledge any words that fell from her lips as fact. She was untrustworthy and always would be in your eyes. She continued to approach you, and you started to lose your nerve. You balled your fists instinctively, and she stopped when she saw your shoulders drop defensively. The grin that curled onto her lips was akin to the Devil—devious and all-knowing.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when he decides you’re of no worth. What happens when he finds the Sun Summoner, hm? You really think he’ll stay by your side?”

“You’re hurt over something that has long since passed, Zoya. Kirigan saw through your childish behaviour. You need to grow up,” You finally replied, but the words felt muddied leaving your mouth. You hated confrontation at the best of times, but this conversation had curdled your blood faster than you’d expected.

Zoya let out a disgusted chuckle. “See? You’re already too far gone,”

“And you’re a snake who can’t get over the fact that Kirigan may prefer the company of others. Others who don’t hoard past relationships over his head like a curse and constantly beg for affection that he doesn’t want to give,” You watched as her face dropped, and then all too soon she was storming towards you. She swiftly shoved you into the wall of the corridor, shoving her arm beneath your neck and pushing down just enough to keep you stuck. You refused to fight back.

“Your days are numbered. He will soon come to realise that you are nothing but a lost soul, just like the Volcra in the Fold that he wishes to destroy,”

She left as soon as she’d appeared, rounding the corridor and leaving you to place a soft hand against your neck, sucking in air as you caught back your breath. You shut the door of your chambers quietly, flexing your fingers in an attempt to make them stop trembling.

You washed and freshened yourself up, your mind racing. That’s when the wardrobe caught your eye; something within it was burning to get out.

You stomped to it, opening the doors swiftly and laying your eyes over the long forgotten Kefta that Aleksander had commissioned for you so long ago. You draped it over your arm, tracing your fingers over the intricate and beautiful patterns of white and grey, next to the backdrop of such a deep black—his colour—

The colour of the Darkling.

“Enter,” His voice said lowly, and you entered his chambers confidently. Aleksander stood with his back turned to you, placing down two tumblers and that oh so familiar bottle of Ravkan rum on the dark wood table.

When he turned, he stopped immediately. Time slowed, the air stilled, and Aleksander was but a marble statue in a world of concrete creatures.

You stood by the centre table, tall, chin out, Kefta donned for the first time. The fabric draped over you snuggly, the belt showing off the waist that you had underneath such bulky clothing. In this light, the embroidery glistened like Fjerdan snow; bright, light, powerful. After six months, the Kefta that Aleksander had so desperately and patiently waited for you to wear was now on your frame.

You were a Grisha. And perhaps, you were his.

The smile that curled onto his lips hit you—that’s what you’d been waiting for in response. The subtle curve of his smile, the gleam of his dark eyes as they traversed every crevice and curve of your body before him, the subtle flex of his fingers as if eagerly awaiting when he’d be able to touch you again.

The Aleksander you had so dearly missed, after months without his presence. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.

“Just as I expected,” He said finally, as he began to walk towards you slowly. “Radiant,”

You blushed at his words, allowing yourself to don a small smile as he approached ever closer. “You picked the right colour,” You replied, prompting a small scoff to fall from his lips.

He reached you then, standing face-to-face comfortably. You peered up at him, noting the way his Adam’s apple bobbed with every gulp he made. Tension surrounded you both once more, but it was much stronger than you’d been expecting.

Aleksander reached out and grabbed the belt of your Kefta, tugging you forward abruptly. You refrained from squealing as you were pulled into his chest, laying your palms flat against him and feeling the unmistakeable pitter patter of his heart, thumping mercilessly beneath his skin.

“It’s such a shame that the first time I see you in your Kefta, I also want to rip it off of you,” He whispered lowly, cascading his voice over your face until you were mere putty in his hands. His hands snaked around your waist then, keeping you flush against his chest. You raised your hands to his neck, eyes flicking to his lips involuntarily as a warmth gushed through your gut.

“That doesn’t sound like a shame to me,” You whispered back, drawing circles over his skin with your fingers. He shivered at your touch, and a small growl sounded from the back of his throat. Abruptly, he hoisted you onto the table, treading quickly so he stood between your legs snuggly. You let out a gasp at his forwardness, but there was no denying it—

Both of you wanted this, wanted each other.

It’d been months in the making, and the absence of one another had only increased these feelings tenfold. You wanted Aleksander to rip the Kefta from your body and kiss you everywhere. You wanted to run your fingers over ever section of bare skin that the Darkling possessed; intentionally, lingering your touch wherever you could, so he’d always feel the warmth of your fingertips even when you weren’t there.

“Do you know how much I thought of you while I was away?” He questioned, and you swallowed down your incessant heartbeat.

“I imagine it was close to how much I thought of you,” You replied, inching your lips closer to his own.

“I poured over your letters,” He admitted. “I imagined your voice reading them to me. I imagined us in the forest, alone together, when my body refused to sleep,”

“Aleksander,” You said abruptly, when the feeling in your gut became far too intense. “Just kiss me,” You begged. He obliged.

His lips pressed into yours with a ferocity that you’d been waiting for since he’d left. It was more than the kiss you’d stolen before he left; more meaningful, less hasty, as if he was taking his time to navigate the intricacies of your body and mouth, now that he was able to.

You gripped onto him as if you’d never let go, feeling the curve of his spine, the tension in his jaw, the soft but trusting way his eyes were closed as his lips were flush against your own. Without parting, his hands pried off the belt of your Kefta, exposing your bare chest beneath. You’d opted against wearing your blouse, almost knowing that this would happen.

When his hands lay upon your warm, bare skin, Aleksander parted from you. His eyes skimmed your chest, landing upon your clavicle and your exposed breasts. There was a hunger in his eyes that you’d never seen before, but one that only made you want him more.

He smiled boyishly. “This was quite presumptuous of you,” He let out roughly, referring to your bare chest.

“I know you, Aleksander,” You replied, as you allowed the thick Kefta to fall from your shoulders until your torso was utterly exposed.

“Yes, you do,” He said, before plunging his lips onto yours once more. You noticed the difference now, as if he was craving so much more, and didn’t know how to grab as much of you as he could. His fingers swiped down to your trousers before long, toying with your waistband.

But this time, you pulled away quickly. You looked at him with a smug expression, flicking your eyes over his clothed body. “I don’t think that’s fair,” You said playfully, as your fingers moved to the buckles of his uniform.

You’d seen Aleksander bare just once, when you’d both jumped into the lake those months ago. You’d been thinking of that day ever since, imagining the time you’d get to be the reason for him undressing in front of you.

He mimicked your smile, but instead of helping, he simply raised his arms. Like the body of Christ on the cross, he smiled and waited for you to undress him. You let out a scoff, jumping off of the table to kiss him playfully, as your fingers pried apart all of the buckles on his jacket and dropped it to the floor.

Aleksander toyed with you when you got to his shirt, nipping at your earlobe and neck while you tried desperately to undo the buttons.

“You’re terrible at this,” He whispered in your ear.

“You’re terrible at standing still,” You replied, giving him another peck while you tried to avoid his playful teasing. You undid another button and moved onto the next.

“I don’t want to stand still,” He said. “I want to carry you to my room and lay you down,” His words made your entire body shiver. Arousal crept up through your gut to your chest, causing your heart to almost explode beneath your ribs.

“You can do that after I’ve touched every inch of you,” You said, amused, but Aleksander let out a guttural moan. He stopped playing suddenly, as he abruptly wrapped his arms around your waist and hoisted you from the floor. You wrapped your legs around his hips instinctively.

“I’ve run out of patience,” He muttered, as he carried you to the adjoining room of his chambers. You’d never been in Aleksander’s bedroom before, but it was just as you expected. A dark wood, four poster-bed in the centre of the large room, dotted with matching furniture.

He dropped you to the bed and wasted no time as he went for your waistband once more. You protested playfully, scrambling to keep undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“No fair!” You yelled, but it was obvious you weren’t really complaining. Aleksander tugged down your trousers, pulling you abruptly as he loomed over you. His arms were by each side of your head, your body encased in his shadow as he towered above you, boxing you in from all angles.

He stopped then, as his eyes ate you up. All bare skin and soft curves and subtle goosebumps—his. He looked at you like he’d imagined this moment often, like it littered his mind when he tried to focus and only left him frustrated by his own desires.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get more beautiful,” He whispered. You swiped your fingers over the last button, undoing it finally and tugging the shirt off of his shoulders. Your fingers skimmed over his chest softly, until you reached his heart. You placed your palm flat against his skin, keeping your eyes fixed on him.

“Your heart is racing,” You said, feeling his incessant beat. It only made your own speed up even faster, mimicking his own pulse.

“You know why,” He replied, and as he did, he dipped his head down, pressing his lips against yours strongly. You inhaled him fully, wrapping your legs around his hips and bringing him down on top of you.

He pulled away, coiling his arm around your head until his fingers were combing through your hair.

“It’s because of you,” He breathed out. “I’m only focused on you,”

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Thanks for reading! See you next time!

[homerforsure]

for the Fun Fact Prompts ! why are you in a tree?

Dear Anon! It's more of a first line prompt than a fun fact prompt, but given that I instantly knew the second line of this as soon as I read the first, I'll allow it.

This got very silly and very far away from me, so the bulk of it is under the cut <3

“Why are you in a tree? No, wait, wait don’t tell me. K-I-S-S-I-N-G?”

“Maddie, can you focus please?” Buck whines into the phone. “We’re stuck.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” she laughs. “Tell me again. Where are you guys?”

Buck explains their location in the park, the fallen ladder, and Maddie agrees to come and rescue them as soon as she can.

“Of all the times for Albert not to answer his phone,” Buck grouses as he shifts on the tree branch to get his own back into his pocket. “He wouldn’t show up and sing at us.”

“Sing?” Eddie asks.

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Did she say how long-?”

“Just whenever she can. She’s gonna have to pack the baby up so we could be here for hours. You didn’t have anywhere to go right?”

“Me? No. Sitting in an oak tree was my only plan for the day.”

“Sorry,” Buck winces.

It's his fault that they’re stuck. It started with a kite. A big blue one lodged high in the branches of a tree that he spotted when he was biking through the park. A couple of kids were standing below it, looking up with sad expressions and making valiant efforts to boost each other up onto the lower branches. The tree was too big for them though, the branch too far from the ground. Buck had slowed to a stop beside them.

The branch was out of reach for him too, even when leaning his bike against the tree and trying to climb up on the seat. Fortunately the park had a concession stand--closed now, open just for little league games--and the stand had a ladder leaning against the side of the building. It was nothing for Buck to jog over and loosen the rusted brackets holding the ladder in place, then to brace it against the tree and start climbing.

The tree was full of sturdy branches, easy enough to climb. He just… needed to find a route. The kite was further up than it had looked from the ground, tangled in leaves and dangerously far out on the limb.

As Buck stood contemplating, another strong breeze had come through (it was perfect kite flying weather after all), making him wobble on the branch and sending his ladder crashing to the ground.

The kids had shrieked and run off without their kite, completely ignoring Buck’s pleas to just put the ladder back and then vanished over the nearest hill. The stiff wind and unseasonably cool weather had left the park more deserted than usual and Buck had had to swallow his pride and call Eddie who only laughed at him a little.

That wind blows hard again, chilling Buck through his training jersey and making the branches sway. He reaches up to grab the branch overhead, trying to feel a little more stable and Eddie reaches out toward him automatically, even though he’s too far away to reach. The other man is sitting against the trunk of the tree, leaning back, serene and stable, as though he’s on the ground and not 10 feet in the air.

“You were wrong, you know,” Buck says, once he has his balance back.

One of Eddie’s eyebrows quirks up as if to say, Wrong? Me?

“You could never have gotten up there from the other way.”

“Well it’s not like your way worked out that much better.”

When his boyfriend (and wow did that term send shivers up and down Buck’s spine every time he thought it, new and fresh as it still is) had turned up at the park, he’d righted the ladder immediately, expecting Buck to climb back down. Instead, knowing he had a stable route down, Buck had turned his attention back up toward the kite and called back that he’d be down in just a minute.

“Which way are you going?” Eddie had asked. So Buck had pointed out the route to him.

“No. No way. You’re gonna get stuck at that skinny branch and you’ll never make it. You’ve got to go up the other way.”

“What other way?”

Eddie pointed it out and Buck scoffed, “Now that’s ridiculous. You’re not even going to be able to reach it from there.”

“Wanna bet?” Eddie had said.

So now they were both stuck on the branch, kiteless.

“You should come over here,” Eddie says, frowning as the wind shakes the tree again and Buck holds on against the sway. “The branch doesn’t move as much.”

“You worried about me?” Buck asks, smirking over at Eddie who just rolls his eyes.

“It’s not a secret anymore, Buck. You breaking your spine is going to seriously fuck with my weekend plans.”

His weekend plans with Buck. The two of them alone. For the first time since Eddie had pinned Buck against his kitchen counter and kissed him senseless. If Buck had ever had any incentive to stay out of the hospital it was for this promise of whatever Eddie wanted to do next.

“Well I’d hate to do that,” he says, looking over at Eddie through his lashes with faux remorse. “I already ruined your afternoon.”

“Will you just get your ass over here?” Eddie replies, trying not to look ridiculously pleased as he holds out his arm to coax Buck over.

Buck needs very little coaxing. He stands because it’s easier than scooting, walking the tightrope of the tree branch until he’s directly beside Eddie, then dropping down again. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Eddie replies.

It’s dangerous to let himself get distracted when he’s perched so precariously, but Buck can’t help it. With his right hand reached overhead to grab the next branch for balance, he holds out his left for Eddie to take. That Eddie does without hesitation, that he squeezes tight, that he smiles at Buck with that soft, happy smile he doesn’t give to anyone else, still feels like a precious gift. It’s so new, what they have. Buck wants to melt into every moment. Cherish it like it may never come again.

“So,” Eddie says, running his thumb over the back of Buck’s hand. “How do people kiss in trees do you think? It seems pretty dangerous to me.”

Humming as though he’s giving the matter serious thought, Buck says, “A tree house probably makes the most sense.”

“Sure. If you were smart enough to plan ahead. But if you weren’t…”

“If you weren’t,” Buck says, taking his hand back so he can move again, carefully, carefully swinging one leg over so he’s straddling the branch. “I think there’s still a few options. You should, uh, get as close to the trunk as you can. With your back to it, probably.”

Once he’s sure that Buck’s stable, Eddie takes the instruction, using that taller branch to lift himself up just a little, turning, shifting one leg over the branch like Buck has, and settling back against the tree trunk. At the stoutest part of the branch, Eddie almost has a stable seat, though he still crosses his legs tightly below the branch to hold his position. “I can see how this would work,” he says. “If you were careful.”

“Oh careful is the most important thing,” Buck says, inching forward, hand over hand above his head. “It helps to have a strong partner. One who won’t let you fall.”

When he reaches Eddie, he keeps his knees pressed close to the branch so he can try and fit himself between Eddie’s legs, so they can get as close as possible. Buck sees Eddie’s eyes flash with concern when he moves his hands from the branch down onto Eddie’s shoulders and immediately feels one strong arm behind his back.

“One hand on the branch,” Eddie says, his breath close enough to tickle Buck’s ear. “Please.”

“Chicken,” Buck says, lifting his left hand again to clutch the branch.

“Daredevil,” Eddie replies, lifting his own hand and clutching Buck’s fingers over their heads.

“You like it,” Buck teases, unable to stop himself from grinning as he stares into Eddie’s eyes to see exactly how much he does.

“You’re awfully full of yourself.”

“You like that too. You pretend like you’re so mature and by the book, but you like me getting you all riled-”

The rest of his sentence is lost to Eddie’s mouth on his. Buck gives himself over to it immediately, letting Eddie’s firm hand on his back push him forward just a little bit more. He lets his own arm slide behind Eddie’s neck, feeling the bark bite into him on one side and Eddie’s soft hair tickling on the other. Buck loses himself to it, quickly losing his balance as he does and he squeezes tightly to Eddie’s hand anchoring him in place.

“I like all of it,” Eddie whispers, once they pull apart. “I like you.”

Buck has just enough time to enjoy the little shiver that those words send through all his nerves before Eddie’s kissing him again. The chill of the wind, the height from the ground, even the uncomfortable feel of the branch beneath them all fades into the background. Eddie’s kissing him and Buck’s as secure as he’s ever been.

It’s only Maddie’s voice that pulls them out of the moment, sing-songing from the bottom of the tree as she lifts their ladder, “Buck and Ed-die, sittin’ in a tree…”

If you know any fun facts, send them to me and I'll see if I can't make a ficlet out of it!

[xaharadesert]

Return to the Lazaret Alone Pt. 5 - Headcanon

Asra Alnazar x MC

A/N: Almost done! @snarkfinnicksoup, only one more to go after this! But of course, who knows how long it’ll actually take me to get around to writing it :) Requests are open! Oh, and for anyone who’s wondering, after I finish this request I have about 8 others that have been sitting in my inbox for way too long, so if it takes a long time for me to post your request, that’s why! I like to take my time and write these headcanons to the best of my ability! Please let me know if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes! Also, I know this didn’t touch on MC’s reasons for going to the Lazaret as much as the previous parts, but I feel like at this point it’s a bit repetitive. But, I made Asra’s perspective extra angsty to make up for it!

TW: crying, Lazaret, isolation, relationship insecurities, anxiety, panic attack, food mention, mentions of death

Spoilers for the end of the game!

💙Asra💙

Leaving an argument unresolved was one of Asra’s least favourite things to do

Even if the two of you couldn’t reach a compromise or some sort of agreement, he, at the bare minimum, always liked to soothe over any hurt feelings before separating in any way

Your last argument before you had lost your memories would forever be one of his greatest regrets, and he was determined not to make the same mistake by letting you think he didn’t love you completely

So even if you were angry, and needed some time to sort out your feelings before addressing the issue again, he would take your hand tightly in his own and tell you that he loved you before letting you go off on your own

With that being said, your most recent argument was much more bitter than usual, and even though he had still told you he loved you, he felt as though you hadn’t heard him properly

The both of you had gone to bed feeling bad, but neither of you had wanted to stay up any later fighting

Once sleep had reset your emotions, you could try again more peacefully in the morning

Or at least, that’s what Asra had hoped would happen

But when he woke up the next morning, it was to find you missing

Now normally, this wasn’t an unusual occurrence

He liked to sleep in late as often as possible, and no matter how long you slept, he would probably be in bed longer

So you not being next to him shouldn’t have scared him as much as it did

But to some degree, your emotions were connected, and he could feel his heart ache right along side you

He was out of bed before any other thoughts could register in his mind, throwing on some clothes, allowing Faust to slither into his shirt, and grabbing a few key items— most importantly, his compass

Not bothering with breakfast, he followed the compass’s needle as it pointed him toward what he desired most: you

He moved through the town quickly, not returning any of the greetings thrown his way by familiar townsfolk

An unpleasant feeling tugged at his gut, telling him that he already knew where you were

Telling him that the past three years had been a lie; telling him that his worst fears were a reality

Telling him that you were dead

His panic rose instead his chest, threatening to burst out

Doing his best to push it down, he kept moving, trying to convince himself that maybe you were just buying something at the edge of town

He couldn’t consider any other possibilities without breaking down

So when he came to the edge of town, the end of the dock, facing toward the Lazaret, that’s what he did

He broke down

Rationally, he knew you were fine

He didn’t know why you would have gone to the Lazaret, much less alone, but he knew that you were alive

But a larger part of him didn’t care

It insisted that you were dead, that he had failed to save you, that you hated him for everything he put you through

And he couldn’t help but fall to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he tried to stop himself from screaming for you

He felt like he couldn’t breathe; there was an invisible hand wrapped around his throat, slowly and painfully strangling him

The dock beneath him seemed to be falling away, and he felt like he was falling with it, not into the water below, but into an endless void

After what felt like an eternity, he slowly regained control of his senses

There were a couple people kneeling beside him, hovering but not touching as they tried to talk him back to reality

He didn’t recognize them, so they were likely just concerned passerbys, but he appreciated them nonetheless

It took a while, but eventually he was calm enough to convince them to leave him be

Now that the initial panic had passed by, he felt empty, but at the same time, determined

He wasn’t sure how long he had taken for himself, but he felt ready to find you and bring you back home, where you belonged

Quickly finding someone willing to ferry him to the Lazaret for a certain price, he sat in a small boat, staring solemnly at the Lazaret as it slowly grew bigger

When he reached the shore, he asked the boat’s owner to wait just a while until his return with you

He pulled out the compass and followed it once more, refusing to look at his surroundings lest he fall into panic again

It lead him into the lone building occupying the island and he pushed down his rising fear again, focusing on the fact that every step brought him closer to you

And there you were; curled up to be as small as possible, sitting on the ash covered ground

He choked back a cry and very nearly threw himself at you, holding you tight and trying not to break down again

You were startled for sure— Asra hadn’t made a sound when he came in— but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy being relieved and repeating quietly out loud that you were alive, you were safe, you were with him

And frankly, if you started crying to, then nobody would be able to blame you

The two of you clung together, crying for different reasons, but crying nonetheless

Eventually Asra managed to pry himself away from you just enough to look deep into you eyes

His cries slowly turned to laughter out of relief that you were safe, back to crying because of where he had found you, back to laughter again because, yes, he had found you, and you were alive

All in all it was a very messy and confusing time for the both of you

But eventually calm and relative silence fell over you as a comforting blanket, save for the occasional sniffle or chuckle

Frankly, neither of you was in a state to talk things through at the moment

You would, for sure, as there was no way Asra would ever leave anything unresolved ever again, but for that one day, all he wanted to do was take you home and hold you close

He shakily pushed himself to his feet, and tried to help you up despite not being very stable himself

The two of you left the Lazaret hand in hand, relieved to be together, but knowing you had much to talk about later

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

[write-r-die]

Man’s World - Part 2

ENEMIES TO LOVERS - After a solar flare ended the world as we know it, former spy August Walker becomes the most terrifying of the many warlords who pop up across the US. He leads his militia from town to town, taking what he wants and all killing those who resist him. And now he wants Lilah. And one way or another, he’ll have her.

Masterlist

August didn’t know what possessed him to save that girl. Maybe it’s just that he didn’t like killing women. Maybe he was impressed with the unique mix of bravery and stupidity that led the vaguely ethnic twentysomething to shoot at him, only to fail spectacularly. More likely, he was just bored. Life after the flash was hard and violent but painfully predictable. 

He thought she was pretty when he carried her from the city despite the bangs, but in the sunlight, he was far less impressed with her appearance. 

To be fair, she wasn’t well. Standing in the command tent before him, she wavered on her feet. Her clothes were burnt around the edges and her feet were bare. The enormous sunglasses she wore didn’t help her appearance, either.

“The Boss just spoke to you,” one of August’s lieutenants said from somewhere behind him. “Speak,” he commanded the girl.

People who try to shoot me always end up dead. That’s what August Walker said to her. What the fuck was she supposed to say back?

“Speak?” Lilah parroted, doing her best to sound confused.

Jack looked like he wanted to smash his head into a wall.

August kept his eyes fixed on the girl as he spoke to his soldier. “What did you say was wrong with her?”

“Concussion,” Jack answered. “Doc says she’ll be right in a few days.”

August hummed. He didn’t raise his voice or take his eyes off Lilah when he commanded the others in the tent to leave with one simple word: “Out.” 

Lilah’s expression grew more and more desperate as each person filed out until finally, they were alone.

“Are you a whore?” he asked simply.

Lilah was physically taken aback by his question. “Am I . . . ?”

August’s eyes roamed up and down her body. She looked a mess now but he could tell she cleaned up well. One of his many talents was the ability to sense a woman’s figure through her clothes, however unattractive those clothes may be. And he sensed Lilah’s figure was exquisite. Her face was, too, when it wasn’t smudged with ash and blood or half-hidden by ridiculous sunglasses. 

“Are you a whore?” August repeated.

Lilah couldn’t speak for a moment, too shocked by his bluntness. “No.”

August’s blue eyes raked over her one more time, his gaze unbearably intense. He might as well be licking her. “That’s too bad.” He turned back to the maps on the table.

Lilah cleared her throat when she grew uncomfortable with the silence. “Is that all you wanted to know?”

“No.” The warlord continued to study his maps as if he wasn’t interested in her enough to even look up. Maybe that was a good thing, thought Lilah, considering how it made her feel when he looked at her.. “What did you do? Back before the flare hit.”

“Umm . . .” Funemployed? Was that an answer? “I was a camp counselor during the summers when I was in college.”

“What activity did you teach?”

She cleared her throat. “Archery.”

“Archery,” Walker repeated. “You should have used a bow and arrow instead of a gun to shoot me. Maybe then you would actually have hit something.”

She was silent for a long time. Her throat was painfully dry. “Are you going to kill me?”

“I would’ve left you behind on that sidewalk if I wanted you dead,” he said flatly.

“What do you want, then?”

He wanted to fuck her. 

After she’d bathed and changed and gotten her shit together, of course. August lifted his eyes from the table to give her that intense look again; that was answer enough.

He looked over Lilah’s head at Jack and subtly nodded towards the entryway. And just like that, Lilah was dismissed.

***

The people August Walker ordered to leave the tent start coming back inside the moment I’m dismissed. Pretty sure they were listening.

On my way out, I pass someone vaguely familiar but for the life of me I can’t remember who he is. “Hey,” I say anyway. I stop walking and so does he. 

He nods once. “Lilah.”

“Mr. Kewlani!” His name comes out in a shout not because I’m surprised to see him but because I’m happy I remember his name. 

He lived next door to me growing up. The only things I can really remember about him from childhood is that our dog pissed on all his plants and killed them and he hated us for it, and that he was condescending because of how smart he was. I’m not at all surprised that August Walker recruited him.

“Good to see you.” The fifty-eight-year-old physics professor doesn’t look pleased or surprised to see me. I can’t blame him for it, since we never talked or got along, but I feel slighted.

“You too.” I think to ask him about his wife and daughters, but they’ve been dead for years. One of the daughters was killed by a drunk driver before the flare, and his other daughter and wife succumbed to the strange plague that came immediately after. Lots of people did.

“Come on,” Jack says. He starts walking before I register his words and I have to scramble to catch up with him before he disappears into the tents.

“Where are we going?” I’m pretty sure this isn’t the way back to the tent I was in before.

He doesn’t reply. He stops in front of a big white tent - the sort people rent for outdoor events like weddings or parties - and pulls open the flap. It’s packed with army cots and outdoor recliners that have been flattened for use as a bed.

“Any open beds?” Jack calls to a woman nearby.

She pulls her toothbrush out of her mouth and uses it to gesture to the other side of the tent. “The one over there by me is free.”

“Great.” Jack turns to leave but I grab him by the arm.

“Wait, what?”

“This is your tent now,” he says, peeling my hand from his bicep.

“That’s it? No tour? What about - ?”

“Stiva,” Jack calls to the tooth-brushing woman again. “This one’s eggs are scrambled. Deal with her.”

And then he’s gone. 

Stiva finishes brushing her teeth and looks me up and down. Her long blonde hair is pulled back into a high ponytail. That, coupled with her cargo pants and tank top, make her look like the single generic woman in any action film. 

She must be smart or talented or important. August Walker only recruits useful people: doctors, engineers, plumbers and handymen, craftsmen, teachers, horse trainers and stable hands, architects, tailors, former military, and other things like that. And of course, prostitutes. I’m fairly certain Stiva isn’t a prostitute, though.

“What’s your name?” Stiva asks.

“Lilah.”

She looks me over again and seems to approve. “Stiva,” she replies. She walks me over to the other side of the tent and stows her toothbrush in a plastic box beneath her cot. “That one’s yours,” she says, nodding toward the one beside hers.

I sit awkwardly on the edge. There’s barely enough space between the cots for me to squeeze my legs in.

“You look star-struck,” she observes.

“Concussion,” I reply. “I’m pretty out of it.”

The thirty-something woman shakes her head. “No. I meant starstruck from meeting the boss.”

Now I really am confused. “What? How did - why do you know that?”

She rifles through the few personal items she has stashed under her cot. “I heard that some idiot with bangs tried to shoot the boss. I haven’t seen another grown woman with bangs in years so I assume that’s you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Are people talking about that a lot?”

“Not really,” she says, shrugging. “I only know cause I fuck Sy sometimes and he gets chatty after.”

“Sy?”

“He’s the boss’s right-hand-man,” she explains, frowning. “Nobody explained the chain of command?”

“If they did, I don’t remember it.”

“Did anybody even teach you the camp layout?”

“No. But I’ve been unconscious mostly so they never had the chance.”

She grunts and turns back to her cot. Finally she pulls out a french press and two cracked mugs. “Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

We go to one of the cooking fires at the center of camp for hot water. One of the cooks gives us some coffee grounds to use on the condition that Stiva make her a cup, too. 

She looks me over, smirking, as we wait for the brew to steep. “You’re the boss’s new girl,” she says, half a question.

“Not yet,” Stiva says before I have the chance to reply. “If she was with him, she wouldn’t be out here slumming it with the rest of us.”

The water blackens and Stiva pours us each a mug. She thanks the cook before we turn back the way we came.

“I thought you said people weren’t talking about it,” I whisper to Stiva.

“I said they weren’t really talking about it.”

“So I’m supposed to fuck August Walker,” I say after a long silence. It’s not a surprise but I don’t like the fact that everyone in camp seems to know. Even as we walk back to our tent, I feel eyes on me. The camp seems big enough that one new person shouldn’t be so obvious.

I finally ask the question I’m most afraid to have answered, “What if I don't want to sleep with him?” I swallow hard. “Will he . . . Is he the sort of man that can take no for an answer?”

“I’ve never thought about that - what would happen if someone said no to him. No one has ever said no to him for anything except maybe Miss Ally,” she says contemplatively. It takes a beat for her to respond to my question. “I don’t think he’d force you into anything. He’s a dick but he’s also a gentleman, you know?”

I do know. “I don’t know. I’m almost positive my body is the only thing he wants from me. Not my professional expertise or know-how.” And who’s to say he won’t dispose of me if I don’t serve the one purpose I’m here for?

“I mean, can you do anything?” asks Stiva. “Anything useful?”

“I taught archery at a summer camp in Maine,” I offer.

She looks ambivalent.

“Why?” I ask, slightly embarrassed. Being an archer sounds cool, but until the flare happened, it didn't have much of a real-world application. “What can you do?”

“I’m a surveyor and a cartographer,” she says. “Used to work in real estate. Help builders figure out boundaries for new projects.”

“Oh.” 

“But people here do all sorts of shit. There’s a dog breeder who used to raise pit bulls to be guard dogs for famous people; now they’re attack dogs for the boss. And there’s a twelve-year-old girl in our tent who’s a violin prodigy.” Stiva shrugs. “They keep anybody the boss might have a use for.”

“August Walker likes the violin?” I ask.

“Not as far as I know,” she says. “But he wants to preserve society and culture and all that for after.”

I follow her back into the tent. “After what?”

“After we settle somewhere for good.” She sits heavily on her cot. “The boss wants to make a new world in his image. Supposedly he’s got it all planned out.”

“That seems a little psycho.”

She stretches out on her back. “Sy told me that he used to be a doomsday prepper or something like that. He’s been waiting for the world to end for a while.”

I’m familiar with some of those rumors. August Walker was supposedly a would-be terrorist planning to cull the world’s population. Supposedly a bunch of powerful people were part of his cell - world leaders, even. As far as I know, they never put any of their plans into motion; the solar flare did their work for them.

***

Later in the evening, when the boss called for one of his usual girls from among the thirty-nine prostitutes in the camp, he imagined he was fucking Lilah instead of her. It made him furious, which made him rough. The prostitute would have more bruises than usual tomorrow.

He repaid her for the discomfort with an unopened bottle of tequila and a pair of diamond earrings stolen from a dead woman’s jewelry box during the last raid. That, coupled with the two orgasms he gave her, seemed more than enough compensation.

She left the tent late at night - he never let his women sleep there - and August was alone with his thoughts, which soon turned back to that stupid girl.

He wouldn’t give Lilah anything when he fucked her - and sooner or later he would fuck her. His favor would be more than enough compensation. She wouldn’t sleep in his tent, obviously, but he imagined her having a little tent of her own somewhere nearby so he could call for her whenever he wanted. And no one else would be allowed to fuck her.

He had a girl like that for a few months but he grew bored with her. When she asked his permission to leave camp and strike out on her own, he gave it willingly. She had the back of her hand tattooed with August’s mark before she left. It was essentially a guarantee of safe passage. No one would fuck with somebody associated with Walker, and if his men ever came in contact with her again, they’d know not to kill or hurt her.

Now he wanted someone like that again. That and more.

Someone who belonged exclusively to him not because the other men in camp were afraid to touch what was his, but because she didn’t want anyone other than him.

The last girl was an escort with a moderately successful OnlyFans account. She was essentially a prostitute. August liked that Lilah wasn’t. 

Seducing her would give him something less mundane to do in his free time.

***

They try to integrate me into camp life over the next week. All in all it goes pretty well, but when they give me a bow and arrows to practice shooting, it becomes abundantly clear that the concussion has fucked up my long-distance vision. I can’t shoot shit. I don’t know if I’m going to be nearsighted forever or if it will clear up as I heal. Miss Ally is displeased. 

It’s obvious that she is equal in rank to Walker, but on the civilian side of camp life. I get the impression they’ve known each other for a long time. She’s the only person in camp who doesn’t refer to or address him as the boss or just Boss. Always Mr. Walker. It’s still a respectful address, complete with a polite honorific, but just the fact that she uses his name seems oddly intimate, like maybe she knew who he was before he became one of the strongest warlords on the continent.

I don’t see Walker much. Meals are served in a huge clearing and most people eat together, so Walker is obliged to make an appearance most days, always at dinner. Most of us sit on the ground or in folding chairs but not him. He sits on a pale blue armchair that I think is made of velvet. The legs are gold and the back and arms are scalloped. I think it belonged to a woman before it became his throne.

The first time I see him at dinner, he keeps an eye on me throughout the meal, even though I’m nowhere near him. We make eye contact at one point. He smirks at me and takes a deep drink of his wine. 

The second time I see him, he ignores me. Well maybe not ignores, but he doesn’t pay me any attention. I don’t know why but it annoys me. 

Near the end of the meal, he crooks his finger at one of the prostitutes. They leave the clearing together, presumably to go off somewhere and fuck, and I’m almost offended by it. Then I come to my senses.

He’s a warlord, and true warlords have concubines. A lot of them. Just because he wants me doesn’t mean he wants me, exclusively.

For all I know, he’s got a girl from every settlement he raided. Maybe he keeps them as a token of victory.

That pisses me off. Men objectifying women, just like always. It may be the apocalypse, but I’m still a fucking feminist.

Walker doesn’t make an appearance at dinner again for two days. I’m filling my plate when he joins us on the third night. I know without looking that he’s here; the sudden quiet tells me all I need to know.

Things slowly start up again as I heap chicken and instant mashed potatoes onto my plate. It’s only when one of the cooks gives me a forceful tap on the shoulder that I look up.

“What?” 

“He’s looking at you,” the woman says through her teeth. She swings her head toward August Walker. He lazes in his blue chair like a king at a feast. When we lock eyes, he smirks at me, then motions with his forefinger for me to come to him, just like he did with that prostitute the other night.

I don’t move.

“What are you doing?” the cook says. “Go!”

“If he wants to talk, he can come to me.” I’m not a hooker or a dog. I won’t just come running at his beck and call.

The cook looks at me like I’m an idiot. 

It’s a dumb issue to take a stance on, especially when it seems my survival is contingent on letting him fuck me.

I seek Stiva out in the crowd. I haven’t made it halfway over to her before that kid - Jack, I think his name is - intercepts me.

“Boss wants a word.”

They’ve set up what appears to be an old Ikea office chair next to Walker’s surrogate throne. He gestures for me to sit when I get close enough. I flop down, making the chair groan.

Walker studies me for a long moment. He looks amused but pleased, too. All I can think about as his eyes rake over me are how blue they are and how the color of his chair accentuates them. “How have you been, Delilah?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No.”

I shrug. “I can’t complain.”

“That’s it?” he asks, bemused. 

“What else should there be?”

Walker takes a deep breath through his nose and settles back in his chair. “I know for a fact how unstable your town was. I did my research. Most of it was already in disrepair, and the crime rates before the flare were . . . high. Here, you have a roof over your head and three meals a day.”

Not really a roof, but . . .

“I had a roof over my head before.”

“What did you have to do to get it?” he asks, voice gravelly and low.

“I’m not a prostitute,” I say defensively. “I told you that.”

“I’m not necessarily saying you are.” 

“Necessarily?”

He leans back in his chair. “You’re a survivor. You did whatever it was you had to do to stay alive in that shithole.”

Now I get it. “And you think I’ll do whatever I have to do to stay alive here.”

He sips his wine in reply, his gaze never leaving mine. He doesn’t speak when he’s done, just swirls the purple wine around in his glass.

“You’re not eating,” I observe.

“I hardly ever eat the plain food,” he says. 

I remember Stiva saying that there’s a hipster chef who forages for his ingredients somewhere in the camp, and that he cooked for the highest-ranking people. He was one of those chefs that foraged for his ingredients before that was necessary. I think I followed him on Instagram back before the flare.

“You ought to join me,” Walker continues. “Something tells me you appreciate a good meal.” His voice is like liquid sex. He’s a terrifying, ruthless warlord who’s done things so horrible I can’t even imagine them, but damn if he isn’t the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. 

The pretty ones are always assholes.

I level my gaze at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

He actually throws his head back and laughs. It’s booming; conversations pause and heads turn at the unfamiliar sound. He has the sort of laughter that would be infectious if he weren’t so scary. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he finally says. 

“I won’t just spread my legs for a good meal,” I say, but it honestly depends on how good the meal is. 

Walker is exasperated. “Is sex the only thing you think about?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re rude, but you’re not an idiot.”

“You’re an asshole.” The words fall out before I can stop them. I slap my hand over my mouth like some idiot in a movie, as if that will undo what I just said. Why did I say that?

He’s going to hit me. Or shoot me. He’s going to do something to me and it won’t be good. Lilah, you stupid fucking idiot.

“No one speaks to me the way you do,” Walker says to me. “It’s refreshing, frankly.” His tone changes. “But don’t push it, especially when there are other people who can hear you. You won’t like the consequences.”

Walker downs the rest of his wine and stands. A handful of men scattered around us rise, too, and move toward him. His entourage, I guess. For a moment I think they’re each going to grab a limb and haul me away to some torture chamber or old-fashioned stockades, but they barely even glance my way.

Walker smiles wolfishly. “I’ll send someone to fetch you before dinner tomorrow. Find something nice to wear.” And off he goes.

[imaginativeamateur]

[Gaara X Reader] You Feel Like Home {Part 2}

Prologue   Part 1   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6   Part 7   Epilogue

~~/ / You hated to admit it but you were growing closer to the hosts during your stay at Suna, maybe too close, and too quick. / /~~

You had two more days before you needed to head back to Konoha. Your job here was basically fulfilled, both of you were able to come up with a consensus for trading commodities and taxes, as well as the security between the two villages. You were quite downhearted to leave the place that you grew so comfortable with for the last several weeks, or the people here, you supposed.

Tonight was different. Temari and Kankuro suddenly had some personal responsibilities to attend to so you did not come over for dinner as usual. You were sitting on a big branch, legs dangling in the air, eyes gazing at the clear sky above you. You honestly still had so many things to do here, there were people that you called friends, there were so many questions that needed answers, your feelings for a specific person being one.

The air on your right stirred and you shifted a little bit to the left, lending your expected visitor some space to sit. Gaara silently took a seat next to you, letting out a long sigh, “You remember the Missing-nins that attacked you on your way here?”

You nodded, curious to as why he brought the topic up, “Did you manage to find anything?”

He lowered his gaze to your round eyes, “Y/N, this is getting more serious than we initially thought.”

You narrowed your eyes, “Go ahead!”

“I received this from an anonymous,” he pulled out a paper envelope from his pocket, “it was sealed and left in front of the tower.”

You quickly grabbed the envelope in his hand, not expecting the package to be that heavy. You opened the folded paper and found tons of photos inside. Giving Gaara a glance, you proceeded to turn back onto the object as remained silent beside, nodding for you to resume your action. You looked back inside the enveloped, eyes widened at the sight of familiar faces being tied to the poles, bleeding and unconscious, some were even chained with rusty metal, the wounds on their bodies were fresh with trails of blood, dried ones layered with new ones. The graphic content made you gasp and clench your fist, these were faces you recognized, and were painfully familiar with. Seeing them in such a state thwarted your heart, your breathing became rapid as you found it impossible to focus on the photos, head wildly spinning, threatening to collapse at any moment.

Gaara noticed your change in behavior and hastily took the envelope back with one hand, the other stroking your back gently. He knew the question that was running in your mind as he felt you trembling beneath his touch, “I figured it was most likely from Orochimaru.”

“Where?” You managed to whisper, voice hoarse and raw, still shaking from the shock.

“You’re not going anywhere, Y/N,” he pulled you into his chest, lending you his shoulder, “Temari and Kankuro already took off earlier.”

“I need to go, my friends… I,” you began to choke on your words, tears prickling in your eyes, “I can’t be sitting here while they are suffering, they need me.”

“Listen,” his voice hardened, “whoever sent the photo here means they know where you are, Y/N, you are their next target. If you go, you’ll fall right into their trap. As long as I’m here, I’m not going to let you go!”

You knew Gaara was right, but you could not stand your friends being tortured in such cruel ways. You held on to him even tighter, tears flowing, and he slowly patted your head, “It’s okay Y/N. From now on, you are under my supervision, I will protect you, no matter what. Temari and Kankuro will get the captives out safely together with other Sand Shinobi.”

You sniffed against his chest after you had calmed yourself down, your voice hoarse, “I want to go back.”

“You will be staying with me tonight, I will have your stuff here in a minute.”

“No need to summon your Ninjas, I will go back and pack,” you gave him an assurance smile but he sure knew it was nothing but a cover.

Gaara helped you stable yourself on your feet as you continued to stare at the ground. You both chose to walk back, using the cold, dry wind to ease away the mental trigger earlier. You leaned against Gaara as he led you through the woods, absentmindedly made your way back to your accommodation.

He patiently waited outside in the living room for you to gather your stuff, eyes wandering around to observe your place.

“Gaara?” You called from your bedroom.

“Yes?” He hurried inside. “Do you need help packing up?”

“Something’s off, I don’t know,” you whispered, “but my room doesn’t look like how I left in the morning.”

“Is there anything missing?”Gaara immediately surveyed your room thoroughly, trying to spot anything odd, “Let’s hurry up. It’s not safe here anymore.”

You grabbed your folded clothes and stuffed them in a bag together with some books and toiletries and made your way to the door, Gaara was right behind you. You two went straight to his home, after checking the outside area once again, you decided to go for a shower first, desperate to rinse the exhaustion away.

Drying your hair as you got out of the bathroom, Gaara was slumped on the couch. The red-haired Ninja was fast asleep, eyes peacefully closed. You took your time to notice how the crease between his brows was relaxed, his chest rose and fell rhythmically. It was tiring and assiduous, his position, being a young man in his blossoming age but bounded to such duties, you deeply understood the responsibilities that he had, having to experience them yourself. After working with him for quite an amount of time, you were sure that the red-haired could not be any better as a young Kazekage. The sight before you was indescribable, it was rare and precious. Right now, he was not the Kazekage feared by nations, nor the cold-blooded Gaara of the Desert, he was just… Gaara.

Gaara sensed your appearance as he flicked his eyes open and sat up straight, mumbling, “I did not fall asleep.”

You chuckled, not failing to stress your words, “Yes, you totally did not fall asleep!”

“Anyway,” he smiled, “are you feeling any better?”

“Um, better than before,” you grinned in return, “you can take a shower now, I’ll wait out here.”

After a warm shower, you rummaged through the fridge and found some leftovers, enough for you and Gaara, and went to heat it up. You spent your dinner going through the possible causes behind Orochimaru’s insanity and the reason why he was after you concerned Gaara.

“What if it’s not Orochimaru who’s behind all this mess?” You questioned, the gashes on your fellow Shinobi did not look like they were left by Orochimaru or any of his guys, they were different, more painful.

“That’s not impossible,” he tapped his finger on the table, “but who could possibly do all this besides him?”

“Maybe they are not only targeting me, or Konoha?”

“What makes you think so?”

“If they wanted to make a fuss with Konoha, it would be more efficient to just come straight to the Hokage, rather than someone out of town like me. Konoha’s citizens would have been a better catch, holding them in danger would immediately get our Hokage on her nerves.”

Gaara furrowed his brows, “I see your point, their intention is much bigger. Besides Orochimaru, the only active rogue organization to date is… the Akatsuki.”

------------------

Taglist: @dai-tsukki-desu​

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

Lily Evans and Severus Snape: Headcanons

So, I was asked in the ask about Sirius and Regulus what I thought about Snape and Lily. At this point people are probably going, “Oh that Carnivorous Muffin is just clearly a Snape stan who thinks he could never do anything wrong and anyone who was slightly mean to him is evil.” Shockingly, I’m actually not, I just happen to think sexual harassment and attempted murder are bad and probably worse than JKR intended (I do think she was trying to go the “boys will be boys” route versus “oh my god, they just dumped pigs blood on Carrie at the prom and then threw her at a starving vampire”)

So let’s start on Snape.

First, Snape did live an incredibly shitty life, with circumstances beyond his control, that did lead to many of his poorer choices. In no way am I saying that it was alright for Snape to have grown up in an impoverished, abusive, household and endured years of humiliation and torment at school. 

That said, I believe that we all, in some respects, are responsible for our actions and our decisions. Yes, even when we come from non-privileged backgrounds. Life is hard, some people will have it much easier than you, that doesn’t excuse you becoming a domestic terrorist or tormenting and terrifying your students, young children, so much so that an entire generation comes out with a loathing and incompetence in your subject.

I guess let’s start back on his friendship with Lily Evans. We get... a really weird perspective from Snape on that friendship. Time and her tragic death have warped it into this strange worship where I’m not sure the Lily Evans that exists in his mind and memory is the one that really was there. She’s this shining Madonna idol who he failed, actively betrayed, is very very hung up about it years later.

I suspect they weren’t as good of friends as either of them thought they were and it comes down to Snape’s resentment of his own upbringing and muggles. I believe Snape was very racist towards muggles, specifically, due to his father. It was his way of grappling with his home life and only fueled by being in Slytherin. Lily was probably, in his mind, always a golden exception to the rule (Lily is the token, gold standard, muggleborn where she’s pretty, brilliant, charming, etc.) That Severus himself was a halfblood clearly caused him some angst. What I’m getting at is that I believe throughout their entire friendship, especially when they got to Hogwarts, there was an unacknowledged undercurrent of intense racism that eventually boiled up with that one incident in Snape’s fifth year.

Calling her that, while he views it as a slip of the tongue that damned him for all time, I see it more as a Freudian Slip. That sort of thing doesn’t just slip out from nowhere, not at that age when they both knew exactly what that word meant, it simmers beneath the surface, and was ultimately what he thought of her. Later, she became the Madonna figure that he views her as today (ironically perhaps even less of a person than he viewed her as at the time).

That said I think a number of factors played into the young Snape becoming a Death Eater. One, becoming friends with Lucius/that crowd who were all being sucked into Tom’s influence. Two, having his terrible home life and all the implications of Snape resenting his own blood status as well as muggles and muggle borns at large. Three, the loss of friendship with Lily (now there’s nothing to hold him back anymore, he has no reason to preserve muggleborn life). Fourth, Dumbledore’s letting Sirius, James, and Remus entirely off the hook in the werewolf incident.

That last one, especially, I imagine cemented Snape’s utter hatred of ‘the light’ (don’t get me started on the stupidity of light/dark in Harry Potter but I guess I’ll use the term) and those that cater to muggleborns. They’re hypocrites of the highest order, Dumbledore claiming to defend the poor and non-nobility, when he goes and does the exact opposite (James is the next lord Potter, Sirius is still pureblooded even if disowned, Severus Snape is a dirt poor halfblood). 

So what I’m saying is I understand why Snape did become a Death Eater, I do not condone this action. Especially as, unlike Regulus, Snape never gets cold feet. He loves being a Death Eater at first, he’s living the dream, getting all the revenge he ever wanted and burning the stupid wizarding world to the ground as he scrambles for ways to climb in Tom Riddle’s graces. We don’t see any hint that he was wavering, thinking of the fact that beloved Lily might die in battle, perhaps at his hand, until the prophecy. 

Now, I’m a little kinder than some about the prophecy. We know Snape overhears the first portion of the prophecy in early 1980. He eagerly rushes to the dark lord, regales him with the prophecy in both a) aid to the cause and b) in the hopes of climbing in the ranks and gaining the dark lord’s notice. At this point, Lily Evans is pregnant, perhaps knows the gender, but has not given birth. Months later, when both Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter are born at the end of July, Snape realizes he has signed Lily Evans’ death warrant (because despite Dumbledore talking, I imagine Tom always planned to kill off both children, Pettigrew just happened to make things convenient for Tom to go to the Potters first).

With Lily’s death now so inevitable, and her blood on his own hands, Snape has his existential crisis, goes to Dumbledore who puts the Potters in hiding and becomes a double agent. Snape also pleads for Lily’s life with Tom and he puts in a minimal amount of effort to spare the woman. 

Then Lily dies anyway and now Snape lives in the bitter cynicism most commonly seen in characters from Game of Thrones. He’s Dumbledore’s agent and sort of a Dirty Harry character, getting to see all the nasty things that many of the other order members never have to deal with. He’s one of the more intelligent characters in the series, able to see the truth of the world he lives in, but he also doesn’t care enough to actually do anything about it. He’s a bitter, resentful, and angry protector of Harry Potter, choosing to hate a naive child for all the reminders of his own terrible life (both in Lily, for failing and betraying her, and in James his most hated rival and tormentor). He gleefully enables the favoritism of Slytherin (my god how he panders to Draco Malfoy) while tormenting poor Neville into terror (that Neville’s greatest 13 year old fear is Snape is very telling).

Basically by the time we get to him in canon Snape not only isn’t happy but I think he doesn’t want to be happy. He’s accustomed to his bitterness, his cynicism, his quiet rage and moves forward out of both resignation, guilt, and a sense of obligation to a woman’s ghost. The actions he takes in canon aren’t so much for Harry as they are for the memory of Lily Evans.

Even if Snape could be happy at that point, change his life or his purpose, I do not think he would. He’s a man who has given up on life.

Now, onto Lily Evans.

You probably think I’m going to rail on her to for the sheer hypocrisy and nerve of marrying James Potter. I’m actually not. Lily Evans is one of my favorite characters in the Harry Potter series and probably the one I’d label as the most moral (though that’s a very low bar in Harry Potter, the characters are almost all assholes, but even so Lily would still be very high on the list).

You know what, I’m just going to damn myself and sound like a crazy person. Lily Evans always reads to me as a more moral young female Tom Riddle.

What the hell? You undoubtedly ask but I’ll explain.

Lily, while having a far more stable homelife than Tom Riddle, also comes from a muggleborn background. She’s exceptionally brilliant, very good looking, and very charming with a lot of people who would call her friends but no one close. Lily, aside from Snape (and that’s debatable), has no friends.

If Lily had not been a Gryffindor, and were Dumbledore not a raging misogynist, his Tom Riddle bells likely would have been ringing with her.

“But wait, that can’t be right!”

Oh, yes it can. First, as I went into above with Snape and Lily, there was something deeply wrong with that friendship. I believe they both considered themselves best friends, didn’t see many of the warning flags, but ultimately we see the giant fissure when Snape lets loose the m-word. Given all of that, I would not label them having been true friends in the first place. Just the appearance of friends.

Otherwise, while it’s very easily to canonically point out James’ friends it’s incredibly difficult to do so with Lily. First, people hardly remember Lily. We get Dumbledore talking about her like she’s the Virgin Mary, saving her son with the power of her love. We get Snape’s weird Virgin Mary impressions of her. Otherwise, it’s pretty much just Slughorn. Everyone else remembers that she married James and that was great because JAMES WAS SO COOL and that she had very striking eyes and was “nice”. Lily is less than a ghost in Harry Potter canon (sadly Harry never really realizing it).

Also, unlike James who has Sirius, Remus, and Peter to point towards (that are very important characters in canon). Lily has no one. The godmother was Alice Longbottom, a woman many years older than Lily and James who probably liked Lily well enough but I can’t imagine was a close friend. In canon there’s an offhand mention of two girls named Mary and Marlene but we don���t see much of them/Severus was always cited as Lily’s closest friend. As for Lily’s sister, well we know they’re estranged. I think it’s very telling that Lily writes a letter to Sirius, James’ best friend and certainly not hers, telling him that James is pouting over his invisibilty cloak. It’s because there was no one else to write.

So Lily Evans is a brilliant girl, who everyone likes and is very charming, but has no friends and led a very lonely and short life.

Here’s where my slack towards Lily comes in.

When she dumps Snape I completely understand why she did so. Snape dropping that word wasn’t simply a mistake, a moment of infinite regret, but something that revealed what he truly thought of her and where she came from. Lily was absolutely right in walking away.

However, without Snape, her closest friend is suddenly gone and the world is cold. As graduation approaches I imagine Lily’s career options become clearer and clearer. While very talented and smart, Lily is a muggleborn, what job she does manage to get (thanks to the sheer nepotism of the wizarding world/lack of jobs) will likely be through Slughorn if she manages to get a job at all. The world is cold and it is cruel and no one seems to even notice.

Cue James Potter. I do believe, probably until seventh year, Lily loathed James, not simply because of the horrifying things he did to Severus (and I’m sure she knew very little of it, Snape hiding most of it from her out of pride and shame), but because he’s just a giant dick. He’d make flirting with her a kind of game and joke to be shared with Sirius, something to hold over Snape’s head, like she’s a prize to be one.

However, by seventh year the werewolf incident has happened, Snape’s retreated further and further into Death Eater recruit land and she’s cut him off, and for all my “James is a dick” I do imagine he calmed down a little. Now that Snape is no longer friends with Lily/after the whole almost murder incident I imagine they didn’t bully him nearly as much as they used to. Though yes, they probably still bullied him, but Lily probably doesn’t know that now that she’s lost contact with Snape. 

James is charming and very good looking. He seems a bit more mature than he used to be. Lily is desperately lonely, living in a world that rejects everything she is, and James seems like one of the few who does support her (that James is more of a ‘pretty fly for a white guy’ kind of support for muggleborns doesn’t hit until later). So Lily is charmed and makes the largest mistake of her life, she and James start dating.

Now, given their extreme youth as well as Lily’s pedigree (say what you like, I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Potter were thrilled that their son was dating a muggleborn) I imagine the wedding was a shot gun wedding and Lily got unintentionally pregnant. Yes, go ahead and throw fruit at me or call foul, I just can’t imagine they’d want a child that young while in the middle of a war while they’re part of an active resistance movement and only just out of Hogwarts.

Then things start snowballing downhill. Lily and James have just joined the resistance movement, Lily’s son is prophesied to defeat Voldemort, they strongly suspect one of James’ close friends is a spy, and they’re forced into hiding.

In hiding is where I imagine stress runs high and their marriage begins to fall apart. We know from Lily’s letter that James was routinely leaving hiding, using the cloak, so he could meet up with Sirius and Peter (I imagine Lupin’s on the out as they suspected he was the spy). While James might not realize what a big deal that was, I imagine Lily always did, and she begins to realize just what she’s gotten herself into but there’s no way out while in hiding.

Now we go really off the rails into headcanon territory in: what the hell is up with Harry Potter?

In my stories, I often choose the unwitting god route. Harry can’t die because he is a god, he becomes the master of death and always was the master of death. This is an answer, but it’s one that makes canon Harry a god and... I would not want canon Harry as a god. JKR and Dumbledore push the “Lily loved her child so much that it deflected death... multiple times” but this always felt... unsatisfying. Many parents love their children (fathers too, JKR, let’s not make this weird Virgin Mary thing) and yet Harry Potter alone in the history of mankind survives multiple times. 

Most likely, Lily pulled off some insane bullshit with absolutely no resources and minimal education AND EVERYONE IGNORES IT. We do know that Lily crafted the blood wards, wards stronger than anything Dumbledore himself can come up with/than Voldemort can break. Ones that protect Harry not only at home but away from it as it melts Voldemort for simply touching his skin. Lily pulled off the impossible in only a few months and did it right under everyone’s nose.

This makes her easily one of the most intelligent characters in Harry Potter. Probably beating out Dumbledore and maybe tying with Tom Riddle. And Dumbledore tells us, “Your Virgin Mary mother loved you so much, Harry, that it courses through your veins and lights those that would want to harm you on fire.”

So, that’s Lily for you.

Now, that said, I’m probably a bit biased and clearly very lenient with her marrying James. To be honest it took me years to figure out why the hell Lily would ever marry James after what happened with Severus and was always one of those weird canon things I never quite understood. He’s that good looking and charming, I guess, was my response.

The answer I now land on with some confidence was that the world is that cruel and bleak and Lily was utterly alone for two years.

By the way, a side note/plug, of all my stories while head canons do pop up here and there I think “October” is one where they tend to crop up more. It’s a vast AU of canon, but it gives an idea of what I think x character would do in y situation. 

[blufox234isadumbname]

Day 334 since we've had Dreamon Hunters on the Dream SMP

I was too lazy to make a full comic so like here's like a drabble or smth for the Dreamon Forest AU

---

Under the cold of night, ice bitten and dead of silence, it would be wise to rest. Yet Fundy kept his eyes open with breath held steady. He gazed long above him, eyes boring into the spruce wood rafters. The hunter felt so uneasy, even with familiar weights pressing to his sides. The ravenette was snoring away, body tucked deep in wool blankets. Sapnap always seemed to react the harshest to the cold weather, Fundy noticed. The shivering became much more apparent as their stay in the forest lengthened. Meanwhile, the brunette had drool running down his chin. Tubbo curled smaller against the taller, if Fundy looked right he could see a smile form. As he felt them, Fundy felt where he was:

On the wooden ground with back against a snow fox - which despite being a half-dead creature, had a semblance of warmth. The wind whispered with wills of the wisps that give the Dreamon Forest a name. They were like eerie lullabies, something of dreams long gone. He could smell the burning fireplace and hear its crackles. Choosing to take a breath meant no harm. Even if the world was dead still around them, the cabin was endless movement. That's what living would be isn't it? Breaths in and out. Twitches in their sleep. Forever pressed to one another's sides. With the few living beside him, he became aware. He truly felt as if he was alive.

If he closed his eyes he could feel them pull away as he fell into the unknown slumber. He hated to feel like falling while pitch black left him defenceless. His breath would still and the cold claws scritched behind his spine. If he focused, those claws could feel like ribbons, twirling and twisting. They'd caress his arms, grace his chest and wrap his eyes. It was like a hug in the worst way, it felt cold. Colder than the snow piling outisde the cabin or the smokey hauntings of full corrupted Dreamons. He could sink deeper, as his body began to seperate from his own head. Despite protest he could fall further. And if he dared look away, he could see the white poppies.

White poppies with his friends, standing tall against the flat plains. They all stood so far, he couldn't touch them. Even as he cried for them, shouted and screamed there was none said back; not a single word they uttered. The air was so still, if Fundy took a breath it wouldn't happen. No air rushed to his lungs even with shape inhales to his hiccuped sobs. Just the stable flow of air as if we weren't panicked. His ears heard nothing but ringing of silence, deadbeat without pulse. Not even reusling of petals and leaves under his unfeeling feet. Everything felt so unreal and still he cried. Cried as loud and the shrill sounds behind him. They were grabbing for him, arms slender and cold. He knew those arms well, even if they lacked his gentle caring warmth.

"Sink..." he begged.

"Submit..." he ordered.

"Salvation..." he promised.

And as Fundy stared into the fading eyes of emerald beneath the dirty golden hair, the poppies turned red. Down the charming thief fell, deeper into the fields; no matter how tightly the hunter tugged at his still hands. He called out for help but his friends were even further than before. The gap deprived his senses even more. So while the poppies grew to their new scarlet colour, Fundy was left to his own sorrowful devices - with the golden ribbons wrapped tight around his cortex, like a halo.

Fundy swore the last thing he percieved was cold fingers holding his face and a wide wicked smile.

He reached for the other weight pressed against him. Tall and asleep, with freckles across his face. Fundy smiled, picking up Dream's hand and placing it against his cheek. It was warm, alive and well. Of course he was. Even with those emerald eyes shut underneath dirty golden locks, he felt his life in his fingertips. Calloused yet soft, radiating himself. Fundy shifted his eyes to the mask lain mockingly on the side of Dream's face. A cold smile adorned the porcelain masquerade item.

One day he'll understand its inner machinations. He'll understand what Eret's gift meant. He'll finally be rid of that withering wretch that haunted his group - his family. Dream would finally feel freedom beyond the forest walls, Fundy told himself. To the ever moving silence that blanketed that night, Fundy swore upon it. That promised kept true and warm in his chest, even as he closed his eyes.

Though he hoped his dreams would be left alone this time

[just-asks-and-beats]

Land Ho!

Water. That was all Gray could see.. for soooo long. He just wanted to pass out. His body felt sluggish, it was getting harder by the minute to sit up straight, and his head was pounding. He tried to ignore it, but it really seemed like karma was beginning to catch up to him. It certainly didn’t help to be in the presence of Ship for the whole ride… they were too damn happy, too damn hug-y..? Is that even a word..? He didn’t know, didn’t care. He just wanted them to stop hopping around the ship hugging everyone and get to the volcano already. As a gentle sea breeze ruffled his cloak, he took a moment to let everything that was happening set in… Big mistake. He felt sick, guilt coming along with his realisations. Oh, how he didn’t want to have to face Barracuda.. but what other choice did he have!? What would everyone do to him if they found out who he really was…? He wished he’d died in that final fight.. he hardly even remembered what happened, just how much it hurt. Nobody had ever accepted him, and he was sure there were no chances at a happy life for him now. He’d ruined every chance he had. He let out a quiet sigh as he looked down at the water below…

Darkness. That was all Lycan- or Lichen? Was he still using the code-name? He didn’t remember… Anyway, it was dark. Way too dark. For soooo long. He hated being stuck as Gray’s body, it was getting hot being covered up in fabric the whole time! They wished Ship had a motorboat so they could just speed over to the volcano instead of this. It was hard to see, hard to breathe, and getting tiring holding Gray up. He wanted to complain about it, but alas, giving away both of their identities would mean quite a bit of trouble. He’d just have to complain to Barracuda when they got there. He began thinking of the volcano, how nice it would be to stay there again. Sure, his last visit ended in disaster, but it was the fun kind of disaster! He truly didn’t care about being corrupted, he just liked having the extra sass and slight power boost! Sure, they weren’t as much of a threat as they were when they’d first been corrupted, the treeangle shard greatly powering up the volcano, but they could still kick ass! He wondered how Bareacuda would react to seeing them both… a question entered his mind. Should he tell Barracuda that Gray is really Blixer…? Well, if Ship said he hadn’t been in a good mood lately, then the answer was probably no. He would just have to wait until Barracuda was feeling better to speak about it with him in private! …He hoped everything would go well when they arrived at the volcano…

The sea, the sky, the beautiful clouds, the shining sun, oh how Ship loved it. There was nothing better to them than setting sail, gazing out over the horizon… this “Gray” was quite the character. Gray top, blue bottom, they’d never seen another shape like him, but they certainly weren’t judging. They liked Gray, even if something about him seemed… off. They couldn’t quite place their finger on it, but they figured it best to let sleeping dogs lie, and let him live his own life without asking too many questions. Ship took out their telescope and pour it to their eye, getting a better look at everything. The telescope was a family heirloom, passed down through quite a few generations, and always kept on tip-top shape, just like their ships. As they gazed through the glass they took in a deep breath, letting out a hearty

“LAND HO!”

Gray had practically jumped right off Lycan- or Lichen? Were they still trying to convince everyone that sorry excuse for a lie was their name? He wasn’t sure. Anyway- he’d practically jumped right off their shoulders as Ship’s call rang out across the waters. He saw the volcano in the distance, quickly getting larger and larger. Finally.

Lichen sat up straight, fully alert. What was going on? He couldn’t see a thing and he felt too nervous to try and peek out.. Maybe the volcano was close! He really hoped so… luckily his guess was correct as he heard Ship began to speak about things like “droppin’ ye off ‘ere” and “dockin’ the boat”. He quickly told up, hiding his paws in the cook and holding onto Gray to keep him steady as he hopped out of the boat onto the volcano’s island.

“Alrighty, I hope everythin’ goes well for ye here, and I really hope ye can get that grumpy lad t’ be a bit more cheerful! I’m surprised he hasn’t “unleashed his wrath” on us yet! Well, maybe he just recognises ye! I wish ye the best o’ luck, I’ll be takin’ me leave now!” And with that, Ship began sailing away, leaving Gray on the island to try and help Barracuda. They waved to him as they sailed off.

“Ah, thank you ever so much for your generosity!” Lycan did his best to sound mature once again, speaking so Gray didn’t have to. He waved back where he’d heard Ship’s voice come from, hoping it was at least general the right direction, since he couldn’t see all too well. He heard Gray sigh.

“….Alright… let’s get goin’ I guess….” His voice sounded weak, and quieter than usual. Lichen felt a bit worried about the poor guy.. They peeked out of the cloak and began to walk towards the tunnel leading into the volcano. As they entered, Lycan finally looked out of the cloak completely, then kneeled down to Gray could get off of his shoulders. As Gray climbed down he really wasn’t really to hav to hold himself up completely on his own, and almost fell over, doing all he could to keep his legs from giving out entirely. He leaned against a wall of the cave, trying to be as nonchalant about everything as possible, but Lycan knew something was wrong.. Gray’s condition was getting worse.

“Uh.. you stay here! I’ll try to find Barracuda! I don’t think you’d do too well climbin around the rocks n stuff over the lava. I’m used to it though, or at least I was getting used to it when I was here for a bit… Whatever, I’ll be fine. See ya!” And with that he ran down the tunnel into the main area of the volcano.. Where was Barracuda? If he was apparently making such a fuss over here, then why wasn’t he there to greet them? Lycan scaled a rocky wall, climbing up to a ledge and jumping onto another rocky platform.

“HEY BARRACUDA!? I BET YA RECOGNISE MY ANNOYING VOOOIICE! DID YA MISS ME?” He called out, hoping for any kind of response.. Barracuda was the only one he knew that might be capable enough to help B- Gray without maybe also wanting to kill him. He needed to find him. He continued searching, leaping from place to place, his attention shifting more to the search than to his surroundings… He called out again to Barracuda, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. He hardly noticed a slight trembling of the rock beneath his feet. He walked to the ledge, ready to leap to a rocky wall and grab on when suddenly, just as he was about to jump, the rock broke beneath him. He yelped as his plunge to the lava below began. No! He didn’t want this to happen again, it hurt! He braced himself for the intense burning sensation when suddenly, he stopped! Something had grabbed him, a long tail of some sort curled around his torso, it’s grip tightening as he was slowly hoisted back up to a stable ledge. He gripped the ground below him, trembling slightly before shaking his head and trying to stand up… but he couldn’t. He noticed the tail was still tightly gripped around him… wait.. this is-!

“Just what do you think you’re doing here…?” A cold, stern voice asked. Lycan looked up to see none other than Barracuda glaring at him… suddenly he felt a lot more helpless. He stammered a bit before being cut off by one of Barracuda’s dramatic sighs. He pulled his tail closer to himself, bringing Lycan along with it. He took the time to inspect the pink splotches making their way into Lycan’s complexion.

“…I see the corruption hasn’t quite treated you well, has it? Let me guess, you’ve come to run from your problems..” His voice was calm, yet accusatory in a way. Lycan looked a bit uncomfortable, staring at the ground.

“…I.. I need your help.. we need your help. I have someone with me that.. isn’t doing too well.” He shrunk back as he noticed how infuriated Bareacuda looked.

“What do you think this volcano has become, a hospital!? Why do you think I would ever care about some stranger, and some annoying pup come to ruin my only chances as finding a sorry excuse for peace!?” Lycan gave a small whimper as Barracuda’s grip on him tightened as he got angrier, which seemed to make Barracuda let go of him altogether. He gave an almost apologetic look before curling his tail around himself and looking away.

“….Lycanthropy, I just want everyone to leave me alone. I have… much on my mind currently, and as you can tell i’m horribly irritable. So if you could just… leave. That would be ideal.” He tried to make “go away” sound a eloquent as possible.. Lycan seemed to get the message, but he had no other options.. he couldn’t leave.

“…I’m sorry for being so annoying and I promise I’ll try not to cause any trouble but please! Please let us stay, we don’t even have any way to leave and even if we go leave we have nowhere to go! Shapes started freaking out when they saw the pink growing back on me! And- and Gray is… I.. I’m worried he won’t last for much longer without any help and I don’t know what to do!” He looked at Bareacuda, desperate for any kind of look of pity. He got a flash of one, but Bareacuda quickly composed himself and returned his stern gaze.

“I have no help to give. I’m sorry. I can temporarily fix the bridge to this island so that you and this “Gray” may leave, but that. is. all.” Barracuda may be stubborn, but Lycan was too. He decided it was time for the final trick up his sleeve… the puppy eyes. He did his best to look as pitiful as possible, his big eyes shining as he did his best to convince Barracuda one final time to let them stay…. Eventually he got up, looking sadly at the way back down. He tearfully nodded as he climbed down, slowly making his way back to the tunnel where Gray was waiting. Barracuda felt… guilty. Did he really just deny a kid and someone who is potentially deathly ill from taking shelter here…? He didn’t want to think of himself as a bad person, but… this was certainly a new low. Oh how he hated this feeling, but… he couldn’t force Lycan and his friend to leave, his conscience would never recover.. He slowly slithered down, as he reached the bottom he used his magic to transform his serpentine bottom half back into normal legs. He ran into the tunnel after Lycan.

Gray has been sitting here alone for quite some time.. where was Lycan.. was he hurt…? He hoped not, he’d never forgive himself if he got this kid into even worse trouble… His head was foggy, thoughts swimming around and crashing into one another, he could hardly even stay awake. He didn’t notice the sound of footsteps approaching until Lycan was standing right in front of him, he sleepily looked up, slightly relieved to see him ok. Lycan began to speak to him… what was he saying…? Something about… Barracuda… guilt-tripping….? He had no idea what was going on… He noticed Lycan looked worried.. they knelt down in front of him and waved a hand in front of his face… what were they doing…? He just grunted and shook his head, he didn’t feel well.. Lycan backed off, but still seemed troubled as he stared at him. Then, Lycan looked over down the tunnel, he smiled a little and got up to greet someone… Gray did his best to see who it was…. it was Barracuda.. he really was here… he was staring at him, did he do something wrong…? He… wasn’t sure what expression Barracuda even had… he felt nervous, guilty… He felt so tired… Barracuda was here.. that was good…. he’d help… good… that means Gray could just… close his eyes… for a minute…

“D-DID HE JUST DIE!?” Lycan exclaimed, looking at Gray who practically just passed out. He looked over to Bareacuda for some kind of reassurance, but all he got was silence.. Barracuda was still staring at Gray, why? Was he that upset a stranger was here..? Lycan watched as Barracuda picked Gray up and walked away with him, taking the time to look back and make sure Lycan was following, which he was. Barracuda had changed his normal legs into a serpentine tail once again to scale the rocks, and had eventually lead Lycan through a small crevice, which lead into a larger cavern area, illuminated by a mixture of candles, lamps, and glowing mushrooms. Oddly enough, there was furniture here. There was a couch, a table and chairs, a laptop, and a whole bunch of boxes filled with all sorts of different things all neatly organised. There was a fire going, a pot hanging above it on a small rack, the smell coming from it made Lycan’s stomachs growl. He hadn’t eaten in a while and whatever was in there smelled great. Barracuda placed Gray down on the couch, grabbing a blanket and putting it over him, then going into the boxes and pulling out two bowls and spoons. He grabbed a ladle resting by the fire and used it to serve two bowl-fulls of a mushroom stew. He handed a bowl to Lycan, which quickly sat down at the table and began to scarf down his meal. He also took his bowl to the table and began eating in a much calmer manner. He looked up at Lycanthropy who clearly seemed to me enjoying the meal and slightly smiled to himself… maybe he could get use to these two idiots staying for a while..